To Force a Fate
by Kurayami3
Summary: MiriaxGalatea. Set in the days Miria is left in Rabona with a mischievous Galatea, an unfailingly loyal Tabitha, and the two newcomer oddballs Clarice and Miata. Miria racks her brain on how to improve the probability of survival on this next campaign while Galatea thinks she's the perfect volunteer for a dangerous experiment. Fantasy, adventure, romance, drama, etc
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **They are not my characters. I am renting them for now.**  
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**1. Getting Reacquainted**

It is not common for a deserter to inhabit a busy town full of humans, especially a town that had a reputation for its zero tolerance policy on those warriors with silver eyes. The holy town of Rabona had soldiers equipped well enough to take care of weak youma. They didn't need the services of a warrior. Of course, this was the place where Galatea had chosen as her refuge. On the one hand, Miria finds it brilliant. Of all the places for her to hide, Rabona was probably not high on the Organization's list. On the other hand, the sacrifice Galatea made to stay here for seven years seems almost too harsh.

Miria watches Galatea as she moves about the room of children with a sort of inhuman grace about her and a smile that charms every single heart there. Amid this fragile atmosphere the jagged scar that runs across her eyes is jarring, a stark reminder that they've long since rotted away. It's unsettling, but both Miria and Galatea know that her survival in the town itself depended on the removal of her tell-tale silver eyes.

"Something is troubling you," Galatea says, ruffling a boy's hair and patting him on the back before sending him outside with the others. "Your yoki is nearly nonexistent now, but I can still feel it."

"As expected from the organization's former eye. No one was ever a match for you." Miria leans against a table, crossing her arms. "I think it's unfortunate. Your eyes I mean."

"Why? I don't. It's a small sacrifice."

"It's still a sacrifice."

The smile on Galatea's face softens but doesn't disappear. She lifts a hand and motions for Miria to follow her. They make their way to a doorway to the back, Galatea expertly evading all of the furniture and reaching up to grab the doorknob with pure ease. The door opens to a stone hallway and their footsteps make confident sounds on the floor that echo along the corridor. The air in the corridor is cool and Miria finds herself adjusting her body temperature slightly to keep a shiver at bay.

"How do you do that?" she asks. "Move around as if you can still see?"

"Did you know that every living creature emits a kind of energy, Miria?" Galatea asks in the tone of voice that often rubs others the wrong way. "It's just on a different wave length, or frequency perhaps. We are half human, so even if your yoki is nearly nonexistent right now, your human side still radiates its human energy. I seem to be sensitive to these things."

"And how does this help you with inanimate objects?"

"It's just like yoki. If you can control it, you can bounce it off objects, people, things flying at your head even, and get a fairly clear picture of what is happening around you. Humans call it a sixth sense, intuition. In reality, they're really just in tune with this energy."

They come to a door and Galatea grips the knob and twists it, opening it to reveal a hallway full of identical doors. A nun steps out of one of the doors and looks up at them. She adjusts her robes and offers a smile. She looks older than both of them by appearanes alone, but Miria knows she was born after them. Most humans alive today are at least ten years younger than herself and who knows how much younger than Galatea.

"Is that you, Sister Camelia?" Galatea says, closing the door to the corridor behind them. "The children are out in the courtyard since they finished their geography lesson fairly early."

"Oh?" Sister Camelia says. "Well, I suppose I'll go see what strange game they are playing today. That Thomas needs a little watching sometimes, especially if you aren't there. You just well may be that boy's first love."

"He'll grow out of it, I'm sure." Galatea only smiles. "If you would excuse us then. Miss Miria and I have some matters to discuss."

Miria straightens her back at the sound of her name and gives a curt but polite nod of her head to the woman and they part ways there in the hallway. She notices how Galatea's shoulders tremble slightly with suppressed laughter and shoots her a quick look, slightly irritated.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Galatea says, opening the last door on the left and ushering her in with a grand sweep of her arm. "You were amusingly stiff with Sister Camelia. You should learn to loosen up a bit, especially around humans."

Miria fights the urge to roll her eyes and looks about the humble room. There aren't very many possessions inside. There is a stiff bed with clean linen, a modest table with a few pieces of parchment, ink, and a quill and against the far opposite wall, a fairly sizable wooden cross that stands at Galatea's height. Miria runs her fingers across the fine lacquered wood and notices the seems on the sides, two slabs of identical wood slapped together. That's where Galatea's claymore is, she's sure of it. It's the perfect size and proportion to conceal such a huge blade.

Galatea pulls the chair from her desk and takes a seat, motion for Miria to sit on her bed. Then she says, "This is the safest place we can talk without unwanted ears listening in. And I know you have questions."

Miria stands from the cross and watches her for a second, the light shining from the small and high window falling over the jagged scar. She continues to stand.

"Why did you desert the organization?" she says. "You were never a problem child. You carried out every order they ever gave you."

"Every order but two." Galatea rests her elbow on the back of the chair and her fingers explore the cheap wood, worn and rounded at the corners turning a much lighter shade. It reminds Miria of the light colored scar tissue across Galatea's face. She ponders asking this question as well, but decides to continue on the current line of inquiry.

"First, to bring Clare back to the organization," Miria says. "And the other?"

"Your execution." Galatea says this nonchalantly, intertwining her fingers and pushing her palms outward as she stretches. She is like an agile cat, her spine bending in a graceful arc as her slim physique accents the curves her body cuts.

Miria's not one for surprises these days. She's sure she has seen nearly every surprising thing the Organization has managed to throw at her and yet, she finds herself taken aback at this statement. In this small, claustrophobic room with the high and useless window she cannot reach, she takes a few steps toward the bed and finally sits down, the mattress bending beneath her weight with the soft squeak of the metal springs.

"And why would you choose this for my sake?" she asks.

Galatea lets out a chuckle. "Don't paint me so nobly. I hardly knew you at the time. They were not positive you were killed in Pieta, so I was to confirm it and, if necessary, finish the job. All I knew was that they considered you a threat. And I-. Well, I didn't care if they did."

Letting her shoulders slump slightly, Miria loosens up and leans forward on her knees, the seam of the black fabric of her clothes pressing uncomfortably against the skin and bone beneath. She says nothing.

"What kind of face are you making right now?" Galatea asks. "I have a fairly good idea, but I can't say I'm positive on that assumption."

"Nothing," Miria tells her. "I"m not making any sort of face."

She moves with incredible speed, pushing the chair back so that it knocks against the stone wall and covering the distance between them. It's not too fast for Miria to track, so she doesn't move, choosing instead to wait to see where she intends to go. Miria does not expect, however, to feel the fingers along her cheeks and the thumbs brushing over her momentarily closed eyes. Pinky fingers follow the contours of her chin and then one palm smoothes over her forehead while the other hand explores down the bridge of her nose. The bed creaks slightly as Galatea brings a knee to it, drawing Miria's face up as she maps it with her fingers. She smiles.

"Liar."

Miria pulls her face away from the invading hands, heat spreading across the skin of her cheeks, and stands, feigning a sloppy stretch. She glances to the light coming from the high window.

"I better get going before Tabitha starts to wonder where I am. She is sometimes needlessly clingy."

"You just well may be that girl's first love, then." Galatea sits down on her bed.

"That's not a funny joke." Miria frowns, bids her god day, and then opens the door and leaves.

Galatea rests her hands in her lap and then allows herself the small pleasure on leaning back until she is resting against the stone wall. She chuckles.

"Who said it was a joke?"

* * *

It's been a month since the others have left to take care of unfinished business and Miria finds herself becoming more anxious with her free time. Her mind is preoccupied with developing some kind of plan for taking on the organization, but her body is fidgety and stir crazy. There's no doubt in her mind that they are not strong enough in their present state and that fact bites at the edge of her conscience. When they return, if they return, she will ultimately be sending them to their deaths. The reality of it is hard and heavy and she takes a mug of beer in hand and holds it in the air a moment before lifting it to her lips.

"What's wrong, Captain?" Tabitha asks from across the table, concern marking her features.

Miria's eyes dart her way and she says, stern and serious, "We have to leave this town."

"But the others-."

"It'll just be for a week at a time," Miria says. "If we're going to face the Organization head on, Tabitha, we have to train, and we can't do it here. Round up everyone else and have them meet at my room when we're done here."

Tabitha gives a nod and then stands from the table, leaving the rest of her food on the tin plate. Miria sighs. She could have waited until she was finished eating, but she supposes it'll be all right since they require very little food anyway. She lifts a loaf of bread from her plate and breaks off a piece, placing it in her mouth. It's not that she's hungry, really. It's more that chewing food gives her something to do as she races through the thoughts in her head.

The seven of them can probably make their way through most of the ranked warriors, but if Raphaela is still number five, they will have a problem. Claire has taken care of number four, Ophelia, but none of them, not even combined, have a chance at tackling either Alicia or Beth, the Organization's number one and two. Miria herself has never met them, but she is well aware of their power.

When she stands from the table, she catches the eye of the owner and he gives her a nod, acknowledging that she has finished the meal. Then, she takes up her claymore, bound in strips of soft leather and then slings it across her back, heading back into the open street toward the great cathedral. Her eyes linger on the massive cross that stands high up on its steeple and she stops and stares at it, dark against the light blue sky. For the first time since she can remember, Miria wishes that the god of Rabona actually does exist because she suddenly feels an overwhelming need to pray to something beyond this world, something untouchable to the clutches of the Organization.

* * *

She enters her room on the south wing to find the others gathered. On her bed sits the two newest deserters to the Organization. The more mature looking one, Clarice she said her name is, seems to have undergone a half-failed transformation and she still retains a bit of rust tinge to her hair and a faint but noticeable olive sheen to to her skin. She holds on to a less matured girl, Miata, looks the age of a human 12 year old, though her mind has regressed to years beyond that, as if her mind is incapable of comprehending the sheer amount of power her tiny body holds, or the amount of damage she is truly capable. The only other survivor of the North War in Pieta in this room is Tabitha. She has chosen to sit at Miria's desk. Last, there is Galatea on the foot of her bed, shoulders pressed against the wall behind her. All heads turn to Miria as she enters and she quietly closes the door behind her.

"You told her?" she asks Tabitha, referring to Galatea with a small nod of her head.

"I did." Clarice lifts a hand. "When Tabitha said you wanted everyone gathered, I thought it only right to tell her. She used to be a claymore too."

Miria sighs. "It's all right, Clarice. It's not a huge deal. She has as much a right to choose as we all do."

"Choose what, exactly?" Galatea asks.

Miria folds her arms and leans against her desk next to Tabitha. She lowers her head for a moment to think before her lips part and the first words escape into the crowded room.

"We're going after the Organization," she says. "The seven of us. As soon as the others return from tying up the loose ends of their lives. I am offering an invitation to the three of you to join us if you so choose to."

Clarice's mouth has dropped open in an unbecoming manner and she sits up straighter, unintentionally disturbing Miata who had gotten comfortable against wrapped around her waist.

"You can't be serious," she says. "It's the Organization you're talking about. They've got forty-seven warriors and more at the training camps just waiting to replace the ones lost. They'll kill us."

Miria stares straight at her and says, "I never said I expected us to live."

There is a long "hm" and all eyes turn to Galatea who has crossed her arms and rubs a finger along her chin.

"You have an amazing attraction to suicide missions, did you know that? Thankfully, though, you and those close to you also have an equally amazing ability to survive those suicide missions."

"It's not without a lot of effort." Tabitha chimes in.

"You don't have to come with us," Miria tells them. "The seven of us are more than prepared to do this on our own. I'm merely offering you a chance to seek revenge for whatever qualms you carry against the Organization, if you carry any at all, that is."

"Qualms, hm?" Galatea lets out a quiet laugh. "If a warrior lives long enough, she has nothing but qualms. Well, so do they, I suppose. They get anxious the longer we're alive."

Clarice looks at her, frowns, and then returns her gaze.

"What do you mean?"

They all look at her. If Miria were one to wear her emotions upon her sleeve, she would shake her head right now. Instead, she holds her gaze and begins to explain.

"To the Organization, no matter how good we may be, it's better if we die young in battle, or reach our limits quickly and awaken before we have a chance to mature."

"What's so bad about maturing?"

Galatea rests her head against the wall, still smiling. "Well, only matured warriors would even dream of dismantling the Organization for starters."

"To be frank, Clarice," Miria says. "The smarter we are, the more of a threat we are to them. Why do you think you were sent to take out Galatea as soon as they found you had sway over Miata? Of all of the deserters out there, they sent Miata after her first."

"It's because I know too much, colored one," Galatea says. "And allowing both me and Miria to run loose could prove a fatal flaw for them. For instance, I could tell Miria all that I know of the warriors number one and number two and she could use this information to deal with them."

There is a silence in the room as Miria's eyes narrow and gaze at her.

"What do you know about them?"

Galatea says, "I'll take proper payment for this information later."

"Just tell us what you know."

"They're sisters. Twins. In battle, Alicia fully awakens while Beth concentrates to maintain her sister's human conscious. Beth is merely a sitting duck, easily taken out. Alicia is a frightfully powerful being, but half her power is Beth. If you remove Beth and her yoki, she is just another awakened being. She's powerful, yes, but not indestructible." Galatea turns her face toward Miria as if actually looking at her with her empty eyes. The corner of her mouth pulls up and points to Miata, sleeping against Clarice. She says, "And you also have this little one, who could easily have been the next number one after Alicia and Beth are discarded."

"Wait," Clarice says. "We haven't agreed to anything yet."

Miria is quiet a moment and then turns to Tabitha and says, "And Clare did say Ophelia is no longer a concern, did she not?"

"Yes, Captain. It seems she defeated Ophelia some time before the North War," Tabitha says. "That leaves only-."

"Rafaela." Miria nods.

"She has perished." Clarice chimes in. "After the North War. She went to kill Luciella of the South and ended up dying as well."

Galatea's eyebrow arches slightly. "Did she?"

"That's what I heard anyway."

In this one moment, Miria feels something warm in the center of her being as she comes to a startling revelation.

"That means," she says. "Unless the Organization has some other hidden trump card up their sleeve, the probability of survival on this mission isn't a certified zero percent. We just got about a five percent doubt in our favor."

Tabitha breathes in and smiles. "Five percent is better than zero, I guess."

Galatea is amused. "You two seem awfully optimistic with such a laughable survival percentage."

"We've had worse."

* * *

They set out from Rabona at dawn one early morning, claymores slung across their shoulders, except Galatea, who straps the wooden cross along her back. Father Vincent walks them to the gates and takes Galatea's hands giving them a warm shake. They exchange a few words regarding the children, reiterate once more their estimated return, and then turn on their heels and walk out of the gates into the open countryside.

"You don't have to come," Miria tells her. "It looks as if you are needed here."

Before them, Tabitha leads Clarice who holds Miata's hand. Tabitha has a fairly good sense of direction in these parts and Miria has entrusted the job of navigator to her. It is amusing how her face radiates pride at such a special designation.

"You've seen what Miata is capable of when she is set to kill," Galatea says. "It's like she has blinders on and all she sees is her target. Anything you do with her, you'll have to communicate through Clarice. If you do that, you run the risk of ignoring poor Tabitha who is probably looking forward to some one-on-one time with you. I'll handle Clarice and Miata. You satisfy the poor girl's hopes."

"It's not like that," Miria mutters. "Get those weird thoughts out of your head."

"The girl is hopelessly devoted."

"And you're hopelessly misguided."

Galatea ponders this a moment and then adjusts the wooden cross on her back before she says, "Well, I suppose you're right. In a way. Hold on a moment."

She sets the cross down on the road and kneels beside it, trailing her fingers along the glued seams until she feels something and then then pulls the over off. Miria smirks to herself when she sees the claymore lying inside cushioned with purple velvet, Galatea's symbol neatly engraved on the broad side just above the hilt. She slings the sword across her back and removes the modest nun wardrobe to reveal her old uniform. Then she packs the clothes inside the cross and picks it up again, standing tall beside Miria.

"I knew it," Miria says. "This look suits you much better."

Galatea chuckles. "A compliment from Phantom Miria? Whatever should I do?"

"Don't take it the wrong way."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not. I'm just glad you looked long enough to notice."

Miria coughs and turns away mumbling to herself how such a person came to hold the rank of three.

Continued...


	2. Invitations to Mischief

**Disclaimer: **Don't mind me. Just borrowing these characters, please and thank you. **  
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**2. Invitations to Mischief**

Tabitha had led them to a secluded valley amidst a sea of large rolling hills. Miria would have preferred a blockade of mountains, but the hills would suffice. The forests covering them were deep and thick and could provide a little resistance to any claymore passing by. There was a stream with clear running water and enough dead wood lying around for evening fires. She surveys the area and gives her approval with a small nod of her head and hands resting on her hips. Then she flashes Tabitha an appreciative smile.

"This will do nicely," she says. "Thank you, Tabitha. God job."

Tabitha beams so brightly at the praise that it makes Mirira recall Galatea's words, but she quickly dismisses them and scolds herself for being vain enough to consider it for a moment. The truth is, Miria has never gazed at her reflection in the mirror and thought herself beautiful. It's not that she thinks otherwise. It's that her mind has been preoccupied with other things. There hasn't been much time or room for aesthetic appreciation of any sort since Hilda died. She thought if for the better, so that brief moment of fluttering she felt was disturbing, especially based on just a handful of words spoken on a whim. She casts an accusing glance toward Galataea who notices the energy, lifts an eyebrow, and then smiles, mouthing, _What?_

Miria turns away without a word. She starts them off on general practice drills burned into their muscles by years of training. it shout be easy for them, but she wants to compare Clarice and Miata's form to Tabitha's to gauge them amidst the entire group. A good leader knows the strengths of weaknesses of every member of her team and plans accordingly. Galatea grips her claymore and lifts it high above her head with both hands firmly on the hilt.

"And how is this, captain?" she asks with a smirk that Miria does not like.

"You're ranked higher than me." Miria tells her. "Why are you asking a former number six what the perfect stance is?"

"Well, unlike you, I haven't been training in the cold, cold north these past seven years. A good refresher would be nice. Perhaps my claymore is not exactly straight?"

Miria frowns and then lifts a hands, one gripping over Galatea's bottom hand and the other moving her top one forward just one fourth of an inch. She lets go and drops her hands, gives a curt nod, and then moves on to Tabitha who is running through a strike drill. Miria stands to the side with folded arms and watches for a moment.

"Hold on," she says. "Give me a high guard, Tabitha."

Tabitha brings her sword up and holds it in the same position Galatea had been and Miria walks around, inspecting. She stands behind Tabitha for a moment considering. The sound her Claymore makes when she pulls it from its sheath is a clean scrape and she rests her blade against Tabitha's.

"In guard, your sword is straight and narrow, but you lose it a little and it goes too far back when you're striking. Do it again."

"Yes, Captain."

Tabitha takes in a breath and continues her drill, the first few times her blade knocking against Miria's when it comes back up. After a few tries, the hard clang of metal dulls and softens until she is just barely tapping. Miria withdraws her sword little by little and puts it away.

"Good. Forty more times and then work on your low guard. Make your way through each guard."

Clarice is working hard to bring the claymore down, but her center of gravity is by far the worst of everyone's. Beside her, however, Miata is near perfection, and the speed with which she pulls it off is alarming. The power of her swings causes the blades of grass below her to rip apart and float up upon the updraft. Miria's eyes narrow. Why did the Organization release this girl with such power? If her state of mind was so unstable, is she not more of a menace than anything else? Clarice pauses, wary of Mirira's presence and then quietly says Miata's name, who stops immediately to look at her. She reaches up and takes hold of Clarice's sleeve.

"Was it bad, mama?" she asks. "Did Miata do it wrong?"

Eyes still on Miria, Clarice shakes her head. "I don't know. Let's ask the commander."

Miata lifts her head toward Miria now, and her face, that of a such a young girl, is filled with curiosity and a small fear, the kind children portray when they think they have done something wrong. It is unsettling, to see an innocent face and know what that body is capable of, unsettling that she calls a fellow claymore "mama." Miria forces a small smile and then shakes her head.

"It was perfect, Miata. Don't worry," she says.

The truth is, she isn't worried about Clarice as much as Tabitha. Tabitha is better than Clarice but that girl will follow her to her own death and Miria wants to make sure she stands a fighting chance before that happens.

* * *

The fire crackles like the sound of dried leaves crunching in a tight first and it mixes with other noises to produce a night symphony that serenades the senses. The smell of the earth beneath her and the bark of the twig she holds in her hand conspire together with dancing firelight to make this moment, right now, fall heavy around them. Clarice and Miata are bathing in the stream beyond and the three remaining around the fire have fallen into a small silence. Tabitha lifts her face toward the night sky and leans against a large log, the trunk of a tree fallen long ago.

"I don't know why, but I kind of miss this," she says.

"Miss what exactly?" Mirira asks her.

"Trees, maybe. Or warmth. Sleeping out in the woods."

Galatea, leaning against her sword struck straight in the ground, crosses her arms and gives a faint nod. "I agree. It's been quite a while since I've done this as well. It took me years to be able to sleep in a bed."

"You actually sleep in your bed?" Tabitha asks her.

"Don't seem so surprised. The nuns have a peculiar habit of noticing what has been used and what hasn't and I needed to appear as human as possible."

"A bed, huh?" Miria gazes into the flames of the fire and tries to remember the last time she slept in a bed. She notices how the fire has grown smaller since they first brought it to life and starts to stand to look for more wood. Tabitha is up at once, volunteering to go with her. Galatea lets out a small chuckle.

"You look tired, Miria. Why don't you let Tabitha gather the wood while you rest a little?" Galatea nods toward Tabitha, and says to her, "I'm sure she's been working her brain senseless trying to come up with a strategy for everyone."

"Oh." Tabitha's cheeks color slightly as if she is ashamed she hadn't noticed and nods toward her superiors, before taking off with a quick request that Miria stay put.

"Goodness, that child is attached to your hip," Galatea says. "Don't you find that troublesome?"

"She's a good kid," Miria answers, sitting back down. "She has a good heart and she's thoughtful."

They are sitting on opposites sides of the fire and Miria can just make out her face over the flames, her cheeks alight with warm shades of orange and red. Behind them, they can hear Clarice and Miata's footsteps. They must be finished bathing and on their way back.

"I have very few seconds left before they get here, so let me tell you this now while there's only you and me," Galatea says.

Miria cocks her head but says nothing.

"Draw your sword."

Before Miria has much time to react, Galatea is upon her with her claymore in hand, and Miria only has time to pull the blade of her sword in front of her for a shallow block. She rolls backwards and kicks Galatea over her, pushing herself to her feet with her hands and to a fighting position, whirling around. Galatea has landed softly on the earth and gives a small smile.

"You should be careful," she says. "You were so unguarded when I attacked, I could have easily moved your blade out of the way and slit your throat."

"Were you aiming to?" Miria's eyes narrow and Galatea lifts her chin slightly, spying her from the corner of her eyes. An amused smile crosses her lips.

"Don't be upset at me, Miria. Even if you've suppressed your yoki to near nonexistence, I can still manipulate it. What will do you if you fight another claymore with the same ability?"

"And what do you hope to accomplish by attacking me?" Miria's eyes are fierce, and she grips her sword and bends her knees in preparation.

There's the sound of cracking twigs as Clarice and Miata are rushing toward them, shouting. Galatea keeps her eyes on Miria and says, loud for the other two to hear, "Don't panic. I thought the captain could use a little training of her own or the day would have been wasted for her. If we really try to take down the Organization, every one of us has to be fit for it. Especially the one who leads us."

"And why am I the one who is leading this? You're the one ranked number three, Galatea. That would make you the leader by default."

"Are you not Phantom Miria, the one said to work better in a team than any number one in the history of claymores?" Galatea smiles. "You're very fond of bringing up our ranks. In that case, think of this as a higher ranked warrior training her junior out of warm kindness."

Galatea disappears and Miria evades, the oncoming blade slicing through a mirage of herself that lingers in the eye unable to keep up with her speed, but Galatea does not falter. Miria flashes behind her and brings her sword down hard. The tip catches the fabric of her clothes and tears a hole, leaving the skin beneath unmarked. Miria's eyes narrow slightly and she jumps away to get clear from a counter attack.

"You had intended to actually hit me," Galatea says standing with her back still to Miria, "but it looks like you didn't quite calculate correctly the length of your reach."

Galatea disappears again and Miria feels the sword coming before she sees it, she leaps out of the way but feels herself jumping forward instead, toward the danger and she curses. Damn Galatea's ability to manipulate the movement of others. She sees the edge of the blade just before it slices her head in two and it stops, a rush of air blowing past her cheeks. It takes a second for Miria to realize that Galatea had paused her blade and she knocks it away with her sword and kicks her back.

"Focus, Miria," she hears her say. "Concentrate on what you're doing and drive my yoki back."

"Dammit, Galatea, suppress your yoki before someone senses," Miria shouts.

She brings her sword down hard, but it misses and slams right into the ground. Galatea doesn't even blink at how close it came. Miria curses. She can't land a hit. Galatea is averting the trajectory of her attacks by just a few degrees and it blows her entire attack off target. From the sidelines, Clarice and Miata stand, hair dripping and watching. Clarice is mostly amazed at but Miata watches with an apathetic look upon her face.

"I'm serious, Galatea. If another claymore feels your yoki, they'll be here by morning. Suppress it," she shouts, bringing her sword in a great arc around her. It veers upward against her will and misses Galatea again, who has leapt behind her. Galatea wraps an arm around Miria's neck and pulls it tight.

"Calm down and make me," she says, leaning forward to whisper in Miria's ear. "I'm borrowing you for a moment."

It takes a single jump for Galatea to successfully pull Miria deeper into the forest where the others cannot see. Miria sees the trees whiz by as blurred figures. She is livid and she grinds her teeth together and tenses the muscles of her neck to keep the arm from pressing her windpipe closed. They're surrounded by trees when Galatea releases her and she takes up her sword once more only to see the other woman standing before her holding her claymore idly to the side.

"Your yoki," Miria says. "Suppress it. Now."

"Shut up." Galatea's voice is stern and loud. "If you don't learn to keep calm and concentrate, you won't be able to break free of my hold. If you die because some claymore decided to make you slice your own throat, what happens to your team, Miria? You're what keeps them strong. That's why you have the added responsibility of keeping yourself alive at all costs."

Miria flexes the muscles of her jaw and grinds her teeth together once more. She hates that Galatea's words are true, hates that she doesn't even have the option of sacrificing herself for any of the others. It is much easier to die for the sake of someone else. It's so much harder to figure out how to keep you both alive. She takes in a breath.

"Everyone I've ever manipulated had a catalog of possible moves in their brain," Galatea starts. "They start one move while keeping at least two others in mind, just in case the first fails. It's in that small amount of doubt that I can seize their yoki. Get rid of that doubt, Miria. If you know you'll cut me, you'll cut me. You just have to put your everything behind every move you make. No back ups. No changing your mind. One true motion with one true intent."

Miria narrows her eyes and then brings her sword to a high guard. When she attacks it's faster than light can manage. She can feel the resistance in her limbs when she brings her claymore across with one hand and notices how it comes closer to Galatea than it ever has before. With both hands, Miria slices upward, pushing against the resistance to keep her blade on a straight bath, forcing Galatea to jump back out of the way.

"Good," Galatea says. "Come after me with all of that determination behind every move!"

From its position in the air, she brings the sword down and it clangs hard against Galatea's blade. The two struggles against each other, trying to gauge the other's physical power, bending knees and advancing until there is not much distance between the ends of their noses. Galatea smiles.

"If you go after every claymore with that much confidence," she says, "they'll all end up falling in love with you before you strike them down."

Miria shows no visible signs that the comment affects her, but the small smirk on Galatea's face indicates that she notices the emotional fluctuation within her. That small distraction is all Galatea needs.

"I think I'll claim payment for telling you about Alicia and Beth now," she says.

She pulls her claymore away and Miria topples forward. Galatea catches her, falling to a bended knee, and then kisses her.

* * *

Miria is fuming as she splashes some water over her shoulders. Normally, she's the kind of person who can keep her emotions in check and can logically analyze a situation. Place her in a suicide mission where everyone, including her supervisors, expect and want her to die and she excels and escapes with her life in tact and her emotions barely rising above slight irritation. Put her within five feet of Galatea and her emotions teeter up and down the scales. She's never had someone influence her moods so dramatically before and she doesn't like it.

She hears some feet on a large boulder behind her and whirls around to see that Galatea has taken a seat on the boulder with the waxing moon bright behind her. Her face is turned forward, toward the eastern ridge of hills and Miria turns her back on her once more.

"Calm down. I can't see anything, remember?" Galatea says. "Are you still angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you."

"But you're bothered."

"Of course, I am." Miria sighs. "I wish I could give your eyes back to you. It seems you've lost yourself when you lost them."

Galatea wears her tell-tale half smile, the expression that could have a plethora of meanings ranging anywhere from amusement to sheer tolerance. She cocks her head slightly and then says, "What do you mean?"

Miria cups water in her hands and watches the small puddle disappears until she holds nothing at all.

"The Galatea I knew was proud of her status as a claymore," Miria says. "She didn't waste time deliberating over some ridiculous gesture humans use to express intimacy."

Galatea laughs softly and it's the only sound that any of them let out for some length of time. When it dies down, the crickets return and the sound of the running water trickling by Miria's thighs fill the air.

"Is that the only reason why you're so bothered by the loss of my sight?" Galatea finally asks. "Since the moment you saw me again, all you've ever really spoken about has been that."

"You're not nearly as strong as you once were," Miria tells her. "It's a loss and it bothers me."

"And here I was hoping you were so bothered because the scars marred my perfect face."

"I doubt mind the scars."

"I don't mind the loss."

Miria frowns. Then she says, "Never?"

Galatea lets out one of her customary "hmms" but Miria finds herself not wanting to know whatever thought is running through her mind. She moves toward the bank where she had draped her clothes and glances down at the terrible visible proof that she is not completely human. It is the wound left from the transplant, the mark that every claymore carries, a jagged incision that starts at the dip of her clavicle and then extends down the length of her torso. It's an understood rule amongst all the warriors that this precious thread that prevents them from fall apart is not to be touched in combat.

"For the record," Galatea calls after her.

Miria pauses and sees Galatea, as if she could actually see, turn her gaze over her shoulder toward her as she grabs the black skirt from the ground.

"I have always wondered what a kiss is like, even before I lost these eyes, but I do regret not being able to see the expression on your face when I kissed you."

Miria pulls the skirt on and then the black top. She glances up to where Galatea sits and then says, "Do you want to know what kind of expression it was?"

"Yes. I do."

Miria pauses. Then, slowly, and quietly, she says, "It was one of surprise that I didn't hate it."

Even without looking at her, Miria can imagine the smile that must have crept along Galatea's lips. She refuses to look at her, however and wrings out her hair.

"Oh. Really?" Galatea jumps from the rocks and joins her on the ground below just as Miria finishes squeezing the excess water from her hair.

"That's not an invitation to do it again, though," Miria tells her as they both start back to the fire they can see about thirty yards away.

"I think you've seemed to misunderstand," Galatea says. "I wouldn't wait for an invitation anyway."

"You're a monster."

"Yes, well, aren't we all?"

Continued...


	3. Her Scheming Mind

**Disclaimer:** Oh, so not mine. Best someone else own them for proper handling.

**3. Her Scheming Mind**

Galatea is tending to the fire when Miria opens her eyes and looks around in momentary panic. It is an old habit from the seven years she and the others spent hiding in the mountains of the north. She pulls herself up and notices it's still dark. Tabitha has sprawled on the ground next to her and is curled toward her, far enough to be respectful, but close enough to raise a suspicious eyebrow. The other two are on the other side next Galatea, Miata clinging to Clarice as if she is afraid Clarice will disappear somehow in the night.

"You don't sleep much, do you?" Galatea asks.

"Funny, that question coming from you right now."

"I have a feeling that you dreamt of something unfavorable, but with your yoki so annoyingly suppressed, I can't say for sure. As I don't suspect you'll be willing to actually discuss it, I won't ask, but should you feel so inclined to, you're more than welcome."

"You have a way of offering kindness in a fairly condescending way," Miria says.

"That's simply because I'm not naturally kind and my attempts at it come off awkwardly. If you think I was just being civil, you're more than welcome to trip down memory lane by yourself."

Miria sighs, runs a hand through her hair and then says, "I knew this warrior once. Everything I know about fighting, I learned from her. We were...close."

Galatea pokes the embers with a stick and then says, "What was her name?"

"Hilda. Her black card never made it to me and she awakened. I was put on the team sent to kill her."

"And something happened to you that day that made the Organization unusually sensitive to your actions," Galatea says. "I remember that hunt because the Organization had randomly decided to put two single digits on an awakened who did not warrant it. And after it was over, I first heard your name spoken with suspicion."

"I'm actually surprised you don't know all the details, you who saw everything that went on in the Organization."

"Obviously, there's much I didn't see." Galatea smirks. "What happened to you on that mountain?"

Miria pulls her legs beneath her and says, "I partially awakened, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

Galatea only nods. "Not really, but I had that idea."

"I lost control of my emotions and thus lost control of my yoki. All I could think about was revenge. But somehow, I was able to pull myself back. I don't know how, I just did."

Across the way, Galatea is silent and then she lowers her head and lets out a small chuckle, lifting fingers to brush her bangs to the side.

"What did it feel like? Awakening? Is it everything they say?"

"Mostly," Miria says, sets her jaw. "It's painful, like they say, but it's really the wanting that surprised me. Through that suffering, what pulls you right through it to awakening is the feeling that this...primal need is being fulfilled. I'm not sure how to describe it. Like the beginnings of joy building inside you and all you have to do to tap into that joy is to simply let yourself go."

"What an interesting way to describe it." Galatea laughs and it causes Miria to shoot a glance her way. "I hear humans call that feeling lust or something like it. I hear that its the reason male claymores were a failure. But you do seem the type to deny yourself joy."

"It's not just me. Helen, Deneve, and Clare as well. The four of us are the same."

Galatea is quiet now with consideration, face turned toward the edge of the woods where only darkness waits. She intertwines her fingers against a raised knee.

"A few years ago, in Rabona, I was on an errand for Father Vincent, looking for a young couple who were to be married the following week. We had to finalize the ceremony arrangements. By then, I was quite accustomed to these rites and rituals of humans. I'd come to understand most of them, I guess you could say."

"And did you find that couple?"

"By tracking their energy, it was easy," Galatea says. She pauses for a moment that makes Miria uncertain, and then she clears her throat and continues, a faint but strange smile on her face. "They were in such throes of passion in such a ridiculous hiding place that they didn't sense me there."

It takes a moment for Miria to realize what exactly Galatea is talking about and when she does, she tenses her jaw and waits for her to continue.

"It was beautiful in a mesmerizing sort of way. They're energy kept concentrating tighter and tighter and they still kept compressing it. Everything about their vital signs were peaking to dangerous levels, exactly like how we get when we've reached our limit in a fight. Jagged breath, exhausted voices, physical exertion."

Galatea raises her head slightly, tilts it to the side as if trying to remember exactly, or possibly searching for the right words to describe it. Miria shifts her weight slightly and smoothes the black skirt.

"Certainly sounds like a fight," she manages to say, but that is all she does manage.

"It wasn't very different from witnessing an awakening actually, in the way all his energy just exploded in one instant." Galatea finally lifts her face and brings it back to the fire, to Miria. "I wonder, if we warriors experience that and go so far as a release, would we awaken at that moment? Just like our male counterparts? Or are these two things completely separate?"

Miria looks away, bothered at the idea of a warrior doing something like that. She says, "Let's not find out."

She thought it would have been left at that, but Galatea says nothing and the silence makes Miria uneasy. She studies her, trying to find any clue at all of the thoughts in her head, but unlike Galatea, Miria can't use someone's yoki as a spring board for emotional interpretation. Instead, she's forced to ask the questions she wonders about.

"You've not actually thought of doing it, have you?" she asks, feeling suddenly anxious about the whole thing.

"Up to now, I hadn't, actually," Galatea says.

Mira doesn't like that answer, but by the way Galatea leans against the log behind her and bows her head, it's quite clear this conversation is over. She bites her tongue and folds her arms, staring across the fire at her. The night still seems young and she probably won't get any sleep with the conversation ending like that. She turns her head to the side, closes her eyes, and curses.

* * *

By noon the next day, Miria has Tabitha sparring against Galatea. The whole exercise is more for Galatea's sake than Tabitha's because Miria already knows Tabitha's level. It's Galatea, seven years out of practice that now causes a spark of wonder. Miria watches them for a moment, fighting the temptation to frown. Galatea still moves with the grace she had as a warrior, and even though she is visibly holding herself back from seriously injuring Tabitha, Miria can see how how her attacks lack the power and precision from before.

Galatea, however, is faster than she has ever been before and Miria wonders if this is because yoki never lies. It moves before your body can translate impulse to action. Energy is the purest form of intention because it follows through with that intention and it flickers when a mind wavers. Miria wonders what it's like to be able to control yoki like Galatea can, to wield it like a weapon, and pull on the wavelengths of someone else's. How addicting can that ability be?

She raises her hand to call the spar off. Tabitha is breathing hard and doubles over to try to catch her breath. Miria pats her back.

"Could you work with Clarice a bit, Tabitha? She needs some work on over all reflexes. I don't think she has much battle experience." Miria offers her an appreciative smile and Tabitha's nods.

"Yeah, sure, Captain. Should I work on her reflexes or would you prefer form?"

"It's your training session, Tabitha. It's your call."

She watches as the girl skips over to where Clarice and Miata are standing. Tabitha is bright and she has good insight. She could have been a remarkable single digit in an earlier life. Miria turns to look at Galatea when she hears the chuckle soft on the breeze.

"Well, to what do I owe this attention?" Galatea asks. "You usually ignore me so well."

"Walk with me." Miria slings her sword against her back and takes hold of Galatea's arm, pulling her away.

"With you? Anytime."

"You're not seriously thinking of testing this awakening theory, are you?" Miria asks, leading her away up stream. They pass the boulder on which Galatea had sat last night while Miria finished up bathing.

"The thought had crossed my mind," Galatea says. "If you would be so kind as to stop pulling me, I will follow you wherever you wish to go."

"So, what are you going to do? Trick some random man in Rabona into a bed with you? At best, you'll scare him off at the mere sight of this." Miria removes her hand from Galatea's elbow and places it instead on her stomach, feeling the taut muscles beneath her palm. "What will you do if it does push you to awaken? What will you do if you can't pull yourself back?"

Galatea stretches her arms up and laces her fingers at the base of her skull. She breathes in the clean smell of earth and then stretches her shoulders.

"Risks to consider, sure," she says.

"At least have someone with you who can help bring you back."

"That's an inspired idea." Galatea muses. "I hadn't thought of experimenting with another warrior."

"That's not what I was saying."

"But it's brilliant. There's no one who tops me when it comes to yoki manipulation. So, to be completely safe, I shouldn't be the test subject. I should be the tester. If anything went wrong, I know for certain I can assist her in pulling herself back."

Miria bows her head and almost regrets bringing it up.

"You can't just toss some poor unsuspecting warrior into the jaws of awakening. There's no guarantee she'll have the will power or the know-how to force it back."

Galatea, with her back to Miria, turns her face over her shoulder to hear her better, almost as if glancing over at her.

"So, what are you saying?" she asks. "I should find a warrior with that kind of experience?"

"Ideally. Unless you want to be responsible for a warrior's awakening." Miria nods in near irritation at how obvious she thinks the fact is. "And anyway, you're a deserter. You can't get close to another warrior without her trying to take off your head."

"So, you're saying I should find a warrior who's had a taste of awakening and who is a deserter as well."

"Don't put words into my mouth, Galatea. I'm merely making sure you've considered all the problems that come with this curiosity."

Galatea laughs and runs a hand through her hair. She turns around to face Miria and says, "And I appreciate it, but I think you've neglected to consider one thing."

"And what's that?"

The former number three lifts her hand and lets out a nonchalant huff of air before saying, "Well, y_ou."_

* * *

She throws herself into training Tabitha and Clarice the rest of the week and acknowledges Galatea in only a civil manner, without giving her special attention. She is something between insulted and disappointed at their earlier conversation, but she doesn't want Galatea to sense that she's not sure where on that spectrum her feelings lie.

On the trek back to Rabona, she walks ahead and if she has something to say, she says it to Tabitha and Clarice. They walk right back through the gates of Rabona and while the others have decided to go to the tavern for a little bit of food, Miria has opted to return to her room and rest a bit. She is walking through the corridor with the large statues of armor lining the wall when Tabitha catches up to her.

"It was a good training camp, Captain," she says and rotates her shoulder. "Galatea has said she'll teach me to read yoki better, not just the outside aura, but also a cursory glance inside. I've been having trouble with that. I'm looking forward to it."

"That's good news, Tabitha." Miria pats her shoulder. "We could use those skills. We've been gone seven years and not knowing what the Organization has done in that time makes me nervous."

"Me too. I don't think I'll be able to manipulate it though, not at all like she can."

"You don't have to. Just being able to read a heart is more than enough."

Tabitha's smile is almost brilliant and the silver of her eyes is almost as bright. The sight of her joy strikes Miria. She is so young, not just in appearance but also in relative age. Miria has been walking this earth much longer than Tabitha has been alive. She has toughened up north, of course. No warrior could survive such a massacre and its subsequent seven years of hiding without emerging with admirable strength, but Tabitha has managed to hold on to something Miria hadn't when she was so much like her. Tabitha still has an earnest smile, but perhaps, that's because her mentor is still alive.

It's an odd thing to entertain any parallels between herself and Hilda and she quickly pushes it from mind. It feels too human, in a way, to label oneself a mentor. Galatea has lived amongst humans too long that she's starting to find their rituals charming. Miria has no plans to get to that point. The time she is in Rabona is not a vacation. She is waiting for the rest of her team to arrive, and while she waits, she is training to get stronger in anticipation for the fight that will most likely end their lives. She had no time for such frivolous things anyway.

"They've been gone a while, haven't they?" Tabitha asks her as they enter the local tavern. "A month, almost."

"I would wager another month as well."

"Do you really think we're going to die on this mission?"

Miria pauses to look at her and notices that despite how the words sound, Tabitha does not look the least bit anxious about the thought of dying. That worries her. It's healthy to have reservations, especially in this time while they wait and train. It's a process like anything else. You grieve your mortality before you step foot on the battlefield because the middle of a fight is no time to be selfish with one's life. She takes a seat at an empty table and shakes her head.

"I think it will be a lot like Pieta," she says. "And we survived that, didn't we?"

Tabitha smiles and then orders them both a beer.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Miria is awakened by the sound of metal slicing through air, of updrafts and gusts moving and swirling to a timed choreography. It's not a yoki that wakes her but something else, something vaguely similar. Could this be the human energy Galatea spoke of? She pulls on some clothes and starts for the church courtyard. As she makes her way along the anterior hallway, foot steps soft on the cold stone, she can see the moon out the windows, large and hanging low, missing a small bite from its side.

There, in the courtyard, is Galatea, wielding her claymore one handed as she swirls it around above her head and around her body, avoiding the dangling branches of the small tree behind her, the bushes that needed trimming, and the flower heads near her knees. Perspiration on her skin makes it glisten in the moonlight and she looks much paler than normal. In one smooth transition, Galatea switches the blade to her other hand and continues, side stepping the greenery, swooping to avoid low branches, all the while manipulating her sword. Then, as swiftly as she changed hands, she lets the blade sink hard vertically in the soft upturned dirt and stands, her chest heaving as her lungs work to pump oxygen through her system.

"It's a rude breach of privacy to spy, you know. Especially considering that I came here at this time of night to avoid prying eyes," Galatea says when her breathing has calmed slightly. She lifts a fist and squeezes it a few times, furrowing her eyebrows before she shakes the first loose and squeezes again.

"I didn't think it was possible to spy on one with the eyes of god," Miria says, stepping out into moonlight as she loosely folds her arms across her chest.

"I haven't touched this sword in seven years." Galatea places her hand on the hilt of her claymore and gives a regretful smile. "I'm afraid it shows in my form."

"That's an apt self-judgement."

Galatea smirks and then lifts the claymore from the ground. She turns away to a small stone bench where a white towel is resting, folded nicely in a bundle.

She says, "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

Miria sits down on the other side of the bench while Galatea wipes her face and neck, holding it beneath her long hair for a moment as she bends her head forward.

"Anyone will lose some muscle mass and precision after seven years, Galatea."

"I wasn't talking about that," Galatea says. "I meant my face covered in sweat. Quite unfavorable, don't you agree?"

Miria fights the urge to roll her eyes. It was her fault for thinking Galatea could be serious about anything for longer than a moment. She says nothing though lest it please her in some ridiculous way.

"I could seduce one of the others, you know," Galatea says. "You said they were the same as you, didn't you? Not quite as pretty, I'm sure, but what does that matter without eyes, hm?"

At this Miria twirls around to face Galatea, eyes narrowing in a glare she wishes she could see just so she knew how angry that comment has made her.

"You will not approach any member of my team with such intent." Miria is standing now. "I will not have you endangering their well-being for your own morbid curiosities. And if you continue to insist upon it, you will have to go through me first."

Galatea lifts her chin to face her though she cannot see her and she hangs her towel around her neck.

"Going through you first is exactly what I'm doing, isn't it?"

This time Miria does rolls her eyes and she takes her seat once more. "We are in hiding. A possible awakening would unleash a strong blast of yoki. Within three days, Rabona will be swamped with enemies."

"I never said this would be happening here or any time soon. As I understand it, it is a private affair and if anyone knows how to conduct private affairs, it's warriors like us. And besides, the Organization already knows I'm here. Any more excuses?"

"Why should I put myself in a potentially dangerous position?"

"Because of my unbearable charm. And because I asked you."

"Answer seriously. Why are you so obsessed with this?"

Galatea sighs now and finger combs her hair a little, working through the knots that have started to form.

"We are so proud of the part of us that's still human that we would rather die before our humanity dies." Galatea removes the towel from her neck and pinches it by two corners, letting it dangle in front of her. She folds it in half on her lap. "While I've been here in this town, I have been more and more aware of the ways I am not human. But this one action? This is the first thing that made me think they are like us."

Miria lets out a small sigh. "Do you want to be like them or do you want them to be like us?"

"I'm just looking for the lowest common denominator. A simple commonality," Galatea says. "That happens when you're given time away from the Organization and life involving it. You start to see that life is possible outside the path of a warrior. That's your ultimate goal, isn't it? Take down the Organization and be free? But whatever shall you do with that freedom?"

Miria does not have an answer to this. Somewhere in the night an owl hoots and she can hear wings flap over head. Her eyes raise above her and catch the silver of the clouds crossing the face of the moon. Galatea bends to take up her claymore once more and wipes the last of the sweat from her brow with her towel.

"Well, I've said my fill tonight," Galatea says. "Did you want to talk about your worry for the others or should I just walk you back to your room?"

Miria frowns. Always so direct, this one. Always so perceptive. How annoying.

"They're good. Tabitha, Yuma, and Cynthia. They rival single digits now," Miria says as they enter the anterior hall. "But I don't trust the Organization to not have serpents slithering away in their shadows. Tabitha thinks we have a five percent survival rate, but we don't, really."

Galatea's expression is almost serene and the moonlight catches her alabaster skin, washing out the pale scar across her eyes. For a moment, it's easy to pretend that she has been restored to her previous self, the number three who would set her liquid silver eyes on her with such arrogant knowing but smile and keep that knowledge to herself.

"What are you thinking about, Miria?" Galatea asks and takes Miria by the elbow to guide her down the right hallway when it splits into two directions. She does not let go of the arm. "My number six who is never without a plan is concocting something awful in her head right now, isn't she?"

"I'm thinking that even when we were in the Organization together, sometimes you took the time to talk strategy with me. Only strategy, though, since I couldn't say we were especially close. I'm wondering why you did that."

"Most would say that's a sign of invested interest in you."

"What would you say?"

"I would say that it's simply a sign of interest in you."

Miria is shaking her head, but lets the corners of her lips turn up as she says, "I haven't agreed to this experiment."

"That's all right." Galatea nods. "I wasn't really considering trying it, honestly, until you kept pointing out all the problems and I kept finding solutions. It's fine if you don't agree now. I'm in no rush."

Continued...

**Next chapter:** Tabitha and learning to read a heart.


	4. The Shadows of a Heart Divided

******Disclaimer: **They don't belong to me. If you want sue me, let me know before hand, thanks.******  
**

**4. The Shadows of a Heart Divided**

On the roof of the cathedral, Tabitha and Galatea sit on chairs set on the edge that overlooks Rabona's gate and fields beyond. Tabitha has her eyes closed and she reaches out her will across the rolling hills to find spikes of energy. Yoki doesn't have a color or a shape, but if Tabitha were to describe it she would call it yellow. A warrior's is a whitened yellow, like lightning striking across the sky. Youma are sickly yellow turned pale green. And awakened beings are a yellow tarnished by crimson drops. It's not at all accurate, of course, but it's the closest way she can think for someone else to understand.

She sees the three lightning-colored spikes beyond the northern border as Galatea had instructed her to do. They've recently engaged in a fight, but nothing especially trying. Perhaps just a few youma plaguing a nearby town.

"See if you can shift them by half a degree north," Galatea tells her.

Tabitha opens her eyes to look at her and asks, "Is that even possible from this distance without releasing my yoki?"

"They're only a few hundred feet away," Galatea tells her. "And it would be miniscule, just an adjustment in the toe of the leader."

In just a moment, Tabitha can feel the small change in the directory of the one who leads them. As Galatea said, it's a small angling of her foot, but it changes their trajectory substantially. They don't seem to have a specific destination in mind, so they don't fix the deviation, and Tabitha projects that by night fall, they'll end up miles north than where they would have originally camped.

That's a terrible ability to have, Tabitha knows, the underhanded manipulation of another, but it is one she wants so badly to wield.

"They probably will never know anyone adjusted their course," Tabitha says, turning her face back toward the crowded conifer forest the party has entered.

"I doubt it'll be difficult for you to learn before the day is out," Galatea says and leans back against the chair. "You can already predict intention, so you can figure out trajectory. Where a hit will land, where a traveling party will camp. Manipulation is only a matter of subtle suggestion made before the other party actually moves."

"Is this what you were trying to teach the captain that night by the stream?" Tabitha asks her. "How to defend herself against that?"

"I think leaders should be well equipped to handle most things. They can't ask for your trust otherwise."

Tabitha is quiet for a moment and the noon day sun beats heavy on them from above. There isn't a cloud out today and the color of the sky is washed out from the lack of rain. She'd heard a few farmers earlier complain about thirsty crops. Agriculture is not something she understands, so she thinks little of weather patterns unless it promises disastrous effects on a campaign. Since the north, however, Tabitha has never once thought any campaign could possibly be disastrous. Not even taking on the Organization head on.

She thinks of how Miria stressed over how to save as many of the twenty-four sent to Alfons, how she came up with something fair and brilliant. That was the moment Tabitha trusted Miria completely. The moment Miria hated that she had only managed to save seven, however? That was the moment Tabitha's loyalty became forever bound.

"I would place my trust in the captain regardless," she tells Galatea with unwavering conviction.

Galatea laughs at this and drapes an arm along the back of her chair. "She really should be flattered to have your unconditional faith. How humorous, really. Miria, the most mistrustful of others, but the most trusted as well."

"The captain is not mistrustful." Tabitha says. "Well, maybe of you, but not of us."

Galatea is smiling to herself. "You think that because of the years you spent together up north? If anything, she's even more mistrustful because of that."

Tabitha stands to walk away because she cannot stand hearing someone say untrue things about Miria. She tells herself she would do the same for any of the others as well. The seven of them only work if they can trust each other. Galatea lets her take a few steps before she calls after her.

"I didn't say it with intentions to drive you apart," she says. "She cares too much and that care keeps her from trusting you to survive without her help. It means your affinity for her is not unrequited."

Tabitha pauses and glances over her shoulder at her. This is something she has noticed about Galatea. She often says things point blank but does not offer her personal thoughts to buffer the words. It's so easy to grow angry with her because what she says so often drives at what lies within your heart. Tabitha wonders if this is a skill Galatea has always had or if it's something she's acquired here in Rabona. She doesn't ask though because there is another question that is more important.

"Can you teach me that?" she asks. "To read a heart like that?"

Galatea is getting out of the habit of turning her face to someone speaking, but when she does, like now, it only serves as a spooky reminder that her eyes are gone. The breeze pushes her hair from her shoulders and she smiles.

"It's not really reading a heart," she says and then turns to face the breeze. "It's more like seeing the source of the energy and making educated guesses. Concerning Miria, it's easy to guess you."

Tabitha comes back around to look at her, an eyebrow arching on her forehead. Below them the shouts of villagers as they go about their day raise in the dry air.

"It's cheating pretending that's a real technique then," she says and then steps on her toes to glance over the edge of the roof at a man and his son carrying a ladder on their shoulders. They are struggling to keep the ends of the ladder under control amongst the hustle and bustle. The son is losing grip on the heavy ladder.

"How is it cheating? I'm still using an ability. I'm just coupling it with a brain."

A woman with a basket of fruit is making her way down, struggling beneath the heavy load. She must be new to peddling and unused to children because those skinny arms lack the strength to carry anything over two pounds for a significant duration of time.

"You're pretty good about pointing out the subtleties of everything, aren't you?" Tabitha asks.

"Subtlety is something I don't think you should underestimate."

Tabitha sees the rock the woman avoids but persuades her toe to knock against it anyway. An apple tumbles from the pile of fruit to the dirt below and the woman sets the basket down to retrieve it. The son loses grip on the ladder and it falls from his shoulder and topples over just a few feet in front of where the woman had set her basket. It should have fallen on her if she hadn't stopped. Tabitha opens her eyes to watch the aftermath. It starts with a string of apologies from the son to the woman. There is some laughter between the three of them, some light flirtation between the young woman and the son and the father buys two apples from her.

"Not bad," Galatea says from her seat. She crosses one leg over her knee. "Way to save the day and spark a romance all from your lofty little perch. You're a quick study, but we should work on getting you to open your eyes."

Tabitha sits back in her chair. "How did you know I close my eyes?"

"You're very still when exerting your will. Most people with sight do that when they're eyes are closed," Galatea says. "I used to do that. Shall we use a blind fold tomorrow?"

* * *

If Miria were to be honest, she would say that the only good thing about Clarice as a warrior is the fact that she can run. She doesn't quite have the stamina and endurance to keep at it, but she's a fast sprinter. If she could only point her toes toward a target instead of away from one. Warriors like her happen often actually. Every orphaned girl is sent east to the Organization, but not every girl has the heart of a warrior. The ones who don't usually don't survive the last training day when the Organization sets upon them a youma. Clarice probably had strong sisters in her generation.

She is watching Clarice struggle with a clingy Miata, trying to get her to sit on the outside of the circle of children surrounding Father Vincent as he introduces the puppet play they're about to see. It takes some debating finesse but Miata finally obediently sits and Clarice joins Miria at a far table.

"What's the point of having her sit through this?" Miria asks her when Clarice wipes her brow and shakes out her limbs.

"I thought since she has the mind of a child, I could teach her like a child. Maybe grow her mind up a little bit, so to speak," Clarice says and then laughs at herself. "Stupid, I guess, but I don't know what else to do with her."

Miria takes in the humorous image of Miata, four years older in appearance than the children around her. She hadn't thought of dealing with her as if she actually were a child. Her training can't forget the fact that if Miata wants, she can slay every person in this room in an instant, but Clarice, whose transformation somehow didn't take completely, sees things so much differently.

"Tell me, Clarice," Miria says. "What were you thinking about when you took in the flesh of a youma? Revenge or survival?"

"Neither." Clarice scratches fingers beneath her light colored hair. "I was thinking about the poor girl after me who'd have to go through this scary thing all alone. She was terrified, you see. Reminded me of my little sister."

Miria pauses. She had never heard that answer before. Before the transformation, the Organization prepares the mind of a young girl. They remind her of her family, of the people she'd lost, and they tell her to focus and endure the procedure for them. She's not sure which one Clarice would be, offensive or defensive, if she wasn't thinking of either, though. Maybe that's why the color hasn't drained from her hair completely. She's somewhere in between.

What's going on at the Organization, Miria wonders? What has garnered their interest that would result in a poorly produced product like Clarice but then assign her a number anyway?

Instead of watching the puppet play and laughing with the children, Miata has made a loose fist and is making odd maneuvers in the air. She watches her fist, adjusts her wrists, and then starts the air dance once more.

"Look at her. What is she doing?" Clarice says with a frown. "Five minutes in and she's already bored out of her mind."

"She's practicing her form," Miria says and then nods toward her. "Imagine she holds a claymore."

Clarice turns back to Miata and then her eyebrows furrow as she finally sees it and her eyes widen with the thought. That's it, Miria thinks. That's the thing with Clarice. She doesn't see things like a warrior. She still sees things like a human. She neither thought of revenge or survival. She thought of empathy. Finally, something Miria can work with.

* * *

Galatea tosses a towel to Tabitha and says, "Take a break."

Tabitha breaks her concentration and leans forward in her chair, stretching out her back. She scrunches her face and wipes her brow with the towel. Galatea has shown her that everyone has a leak in their fronts, a small bit of their true face that stays consistent. She calls it a spirit thread and it leads through everything else of a person to their inner source of energy. The problem here is that Galatea knows how to make decoy threads to throw her off. There's a pressure building between her eyes and Tabitha lets herself lean back against the chair, presses her fingers to her forehead.

"So the Organization taught you to read hearts? Seems a dangerous thing to teach if they want us to be naïve like you and the captain say."

The heat of the afternoon is starting to pick up, but the two of them are oblivious to it. Galatea's voice echoes in the hollow left behind when the breeze died. Tabitha cracks an eye and peeks her way.

"The Organization taught me to conceal my heart out of wariness," Galatea says. "Humans taught me to read out of necessity. Seven years is a long time."

Tabitha finds that an odd thing to say. They don't age, not like a human, and time passes quickly for them. They complete a job in a village one year and the next job in the same village later could yield completely new faces, transformed by age or legacy. She has never heard a warrior speak like this, like the weight of time was a force that could be felt.

Then Tabitha feels it, the thread of spirit that leads to Galatea's heart, but all she finds is a jumble of emotions that contradict each other. Belonging and isolation. Peace and turbulence. Pride and humility. That's all she can sample before Galatea snaps her back out and her laughter fills the silence that has fallen between them.

"Clever, clever. So now that you've seen a glimpse, how about making an educated guess?"

Tabitha chews on her thoughts for a moment and thinks about what she knows about Galatea. A former number three in the Organization. The other warriors always called the ones ranked five and above the most obedient soldiers. She recalls that conversation about Galatea knowing too much and becoming a danger. But then she's been here, in Rabona, this whole time. _Seven years is a long time._

When she speaks, Tabitha's words are laced with a sorrow. "You have a conflicted soul. You're not anything at all right now, are you? Not human, not warrior. Just something in between."

"Ah, but I am free," Galatea says. "I am free to become anything I choose, so spare me the pity."

Tabitha frowns. "The captain says as long as the Organization exists, they can hunt us any time."

"Naturally."

"Then you really aren't free."

That earns her a chuckle.

"You haven't spoken to many deserters, have you?" Galatea asks and Tabitha shakes her head and confirms her suspicions. "Before the Organization cast me as their Eye, my skill at yoki reading was used to hunt down deserters and take their heads. And every deserter had one thing in common."

"What was that?"

There are a few shrieks from some children finally let out of afternoon lessons and they're shouts fill the streets with the pounding of their feet against the packed earth. Tabitha finds the hustle of the city unnerving at times. So loud, so noisy. It makes it difficult to concentrate sometimes. She much rather would be out there, beyond the walls, with her feet planted firmly on rich soil. She tries to tune it all out and narrow her focus to this roof only.

Galatea has taken her time to scratch along the side of her neck, head tilted to the side like a lazy cat.

She says, "You come to accept that any day a warrior is going to walk over the next hill to kill you. It stops being about wanting to stay alive. It starts being about making your desertion count for something. For Miria, it's to snuff out the source of all the problems. For you, I would guess that it's the bonds you made with everyone."

Now Tabitha understands where her reading of Galatea was off. She is a former human and she is a former warrior and there is a constant push and pull with these two things, a dance of persuasions thrown off balance by the arrival of seven ghosts and two deserters. This conflict of Galatea's separating selves is not at all the cast of her heart because both sides of her agree on one thing.

"Then for you, it's this town," Tabitha says, glancing over her shoulder to see that Galatea's smile has retreated into a solemnity she feels is rare and precious.

"Good job," Galatea says, "Let's try again."

* * *

By evening, Tabitha is walking through the streets of Rabona, watching as peddlers close up their carts and stow away their merchandise for safe keeping. She sees an old woman smiling and follows the spirit thread only to find that the woman is in terrible pain with her bones grinding against each other. Odd, Tabitha thinks. In the distance she picks up the signature of two heated human auras and she rounds the corner to get a better look. It's a husband and a wife shouting at each other over burned dinner, so angry and exasperated, but she can feel the love and loneliness inside them. It seems no one in this town is honest.

Tabitha makes her way to the soldier's training academy on the other end of town. She passes by a few of the soldiers who nod her way but doesn't acknowledge them. The last time she spoke with one, his face turned bright red and he turned away and mumbled something about not having the authority to answer her question. Since then, she's been wary of soldiers. Only a handful of them seem to be intelligent.

In the training room, Miria and Clarice both stand with their claymores drawn. It looks like Miata has been told to sit on the sidelines and she isn't happy at all about it. Tabitha hangs back in the shadows of the doorway, not wanting to distract from whatever Miria is trying to do with Clarice.

"Come on, Clarice," Miria says. "Why the high guard?"

Clarice is panting and her sword is starting to look heavy in her hands. She raises it high behind her head for a strike from below and shouts, trying to get her voice over the loud clang of metal against metal. Miria blocks the attack and then counters.

"To protect our heads on the battlefield," Clarice says and swings her sword around in an arc over her head and brings it down to Miria's knee.

"What is a battlefield?" Miria sidesteps her blade with such laughable ease and knocks her it away.

Clarice winces as the momentum clearly overpowers her own. "A battlefield is a hostile environment that extends in all directions at once, above, below, in front and behind."

Tabitha is not sure how long this has been going one, but she watches with near awe. For the next few minutes, Miria drills both technique and reason into Clarice making her move in every direction and never letting her feet stand still for too long.

"Which fingers control the movement of the blade?"

"The bottom two."

"Why?"

"Because the weight on the end is the counter balance." Clarice just barely catches the oncoming blade in time and uses her own to glide down the length of it toward the center of Miria's chest. Her aim was good, but she just isn't fast enough. "And we need to control the counter balance for accuracy and power."

Tabitha is surprised Miata hasn't moved to defend Clarice. Maybe the girl understands that this is only a training session. She tries to get a good read on Miata, but the girl shuts her out, eyes snapping her way. Miata is the most scary when her gaze tracks on you, but it is especially intimidating now since Tabitha can't get a clear reading at all. Just fuzzy sensations that burst and then disappear, half words, half emotions, none of them helpful.

Clarice's emotions are elevated. She's stressed and aggravated and Tabitha picks up confusion as well. But that's it. There's a desire to be better, but it feels fleeting. Mostly, the only substantial thing Tabitha can pick from Clarice's over excited wavelengths is a desire to just be good enough. Good enough to accomplish a task, good enough to deserve the reward, and good enough to continue living. Tabitha can't feel a strong sense of ambition though. Well, no wonder she's forty-seven.

Tabitha's eyes track to Miria who lands from an aerial attack and swipes her claymore at Clarice's feet. Clarice nearly cries out as she leaps.

"Evade, defend, attack, and follow through," Miria says to her. "Always those things."

Clarice remembers the claymore in her hand and then grips the hilt and brings it down. Tabitha watches a little longer, trying to gather the nerve to attempt to read Miria, but she doesn't. Somehow, it feels too much like an invasion of privacy. It feels too intimate for her to bear. Instead, she relaxes and then walks into the room, rounding the squared floor and coming to sit beside Miata.

"Mama's funny," Miata says to her.

"Yes, she is."

Tabitha watches Clarice scramble to her feet after her attack from above was deflected. Oh, she understands now. Miria is walking her step by step through the thoughts of a warrior in combat, building her up from the most rudimentary basic. Fighting is a skill like any other and for those like Clarice who have no natural talent in it at all, the best way to teach a skill is to start from the bottom and cover every element, no matter how common sense it seems.

Clarice staggers now and waves her arms in the air as she loses balance, but Miria is quick to reach out and grab her wrist to steady her.

"Good job," Miria says, pulling her back upright. "Will you remember all those things until tomorrow?"

"I think so." Clarice is trying to catch her breath, but nods. She stoops over and places her hands on her knees. "Oh, man. I'm going to hurt tonight."

Miata has her arms around her almost instantly and Clarice grunts at the sudden touch and the aches that result from it. Miria lets out a half smile and pushes hair from her face and Tabitha has that familiar clenching feeling that tells her she wants to fight beside Miria for the rest of her days. Miria catches Tabitha looking at her and then comes to sit beside her.

"How did it go today?" she asks.

Tabitha blinks and loosens the tightness in her chest. "It went well. I can get glimpses of people's hearts now. Enough to take educated guesses."

"That's great."

"Captain, do you trust us? Cynthia, Yuma, the others and me?"

At this, Miria glances at her, surprised. "Of course I do."

Tabitha is moved at the relief she feels at this and she doesn't want to know if it's not true. Questioning the truth of someone else's words is not trust, is it? In that training room where every sound echoes, she makes a promise to herself to never read Miria's heart, no matter how loudly she can hear it beating in her chest.

Continued...

**Next chapter**: Galatea and the imitations of life.

**A/N**: I will work on the suggestions left by my reviewers. Thank you for taking the time to leave them.


	5. Of Souls Made Solid

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Norihiro Yagi's Claymore are actually not mine to play with but I was never one to follow _all _the rules.

**5. Of Souls Made Solid**

Little Thomas is her helper today because he wouldn't stay quiet during the geography lesson. Galatea knows this was his goal because he is swollen with pride until the lesson is over. It's an interesting contrast to the cloud of negativity that festers in Sister Cecilia's corner. It amuses Galatea, really. She's never felt anything but that cloud from Sister Cecilia in all the years she's been here. It would be unfair to expect anything different by now. The summer weather has turned the room into a near oven and the doors and windows have all been opened in an unsuccessful attempt to create a breeze way. This could also explain Sister Cecilia's oppressive mood, but Galatea would still bet it's simply because the good sister doesn't like her.

Galatea is just at the end of telling the story of the village in the south that was built at the foot of the hill where a huge tree reaches for the sky. Its canopy is so expansive that it umbrellas and shelters the whole town in perpetual shade. This is geography hour, which is really just her talking about the places she's visited in her travels as a warrior and the children marking them on blank maps. From her memory, she and Father Vincent have updated half of the maps and culture books shelved in the grand library. She's just dismissed the class when Miria slips through the open door to her right.

Everyone has a different feel to them and each yoki reader describes that feeling in different ways. Galatea uses air pressure and vibration. Sister Cecilia is a high strung pluck that packs its own smoke cover. She feels like a thread pulled tight to the point of snapping and shrouded in a musk of disapproval. By contrast, Miria has always been a soft hum much like rain fall reaching across the land in the dark of the night. Despite the excitement from the children who clamor around her with a thousand questions, Galatea can feel Miria's steady presence. She motions for her to come closer.

"So, Sister Latea, so," a little girl says, "can you beat up every youma in the world?"

"Probably much better than the soldiers can." Galatea smiles and then gestures to Miria. "Miss Miria here can beat them up better than I can."

The children are in awe and a few of them rush over to her. They draw her closer with hands that are probably grimy with everything they'd touched that day. Miria tightens and has to stoop forward to accommodate their short reach when they pull her closer to where Galatea sits on the edge of her desk.

"Is that true? So you can beat up the soldiers too?"

"Most likely."

"Can you beat up Sister Latea?"

Miria says, "I don't know. I've never tried."

The chuckle Miria lets out sends a shiver of distortion quickly through her unwavering presence. The shiver makes Galatea smile. It's a small indication that stern and serious Miria feels many things her words never betray.

Thomas remains unimpressed with Miria, however, and gathers all the snobbery he's capable before leaning into Galatea's leg, announcing loudly, "No one can beat up Sister Latea. Not even God."

Sister Cecilia takes in an unpleasant breathe in the corner and then crosses her arms, but Galatea pays no mind. She ruffles Thomas' hair.

"Only god can beat himself up, I think," she says. "Miria and I only beat up awakened beings and youma, anyway."

"Oh," the children say like this is the wisest thing they have ever heard and then she shoos them along, the ruffians, out the door for their thirty minute break. Their footsteps thunder across the room the door and once they're gone, the quiet is almost defining. Sister Cecelia stands from her chair and clears her throat in the newly found stillness of the empty room.

"We don't encourage linking violence with God," she says with a voice as sour as her face. "And it worries me that you would discuss so openly your questionable past."

Galatea flashes her no-tell smile. "Of course, Sister Cecelia. Next time I'll slay a youma in front of them and properly earn your worry."

"Keep the witch stories out of the classroom." Sister Cecelia lets out an undignified huff and then Miria watches her turn sharp on her heel and march out of the classroom after the children. Galatea moves to fix the chairs the children pushed haphazardly beneath the tables.

"Is she always like that?" Miria asks. "Or is it only that she doesn't trust a warrior?"

"Sister Cecelia? I'm pretty sure it's just me she doesn't trust," Galatea says as a chair leg scrapes against the floor. "I like that about her. She's always been very honest about what she thinks of me. You'll find honesty doesn't come easy with humans. From the moment we met the sister has been on a mission to prove me a 'saucy harlot' and I haven't bothered to prove otherwise."

"You would toy with the mission of a serious woman."

"Only because serious women are the most fun to toy with."

There is a small fluctuation of pressure around Miria, not one of annoyance as Galatea normally expects from her. It's more of a silent acceptance of a personality she cannot change. It makes Galatea smile just as much as the shrieks of the children outside. Perhaps she's growing on the fierce captain. Or perhaps the fierce captain has come to see through all the words Galatea hides behind. How exciting either way.

"You're really fond of those children, aren't you?" Miria asks her.

Her voice is warm and vibrates against Galatea's skin, effervescence converted to corporal sensation. Could she ever describe it to her, she wonders? The touch of a voice made physical? No, probably not. Most definitely not.

"Who wouldn't be?" she asks and smiles instead, stilling her tongue from trying. She straightens the last chair. "They're so fierce in their furies, but they're unable to hold all their passions at once so they burn through one quickly to properly feel the next."

Outside the children are hollering. They've found sticks it seems and are whacking each other silly in poor imitations of sword play. These children will probably ask her to teach them some moves eventually, a request Galatea intends to oblige with all seriousness, if only to rile Sister Cecilia.

"I might have a favor to ask of you then," Miria says, making her way down the aisle to where Galatea is. Her very presence changes the pressure around, condenses it.

Before, in the Organization, Galatea had merely enjoyed poking dents in Miria's usually stoic demeanor, but in the days since she and the others have arrived in Rabona, she can't get enough of how much the air around morphs to accommodate her energy. She is so solid in soul that everything else bends around her. It's not an attribute many seem to have and all the saints help her if Miria ever comes to know the effect she has on her.

"I'm a'tremble with delight and anticipation to hear how I may help," Galatea says.

"It's about Miata." Miria's voice always carries an edge of sharp thought and Galatea can even feel the heat raising from her body. "Clarice had the idea to teach her like a child, to develop her mind. Stabilize her in a way. I think she may be on to something."

"That's an inspired idea. I doubt anything we do could repair that child's mind completely," Galatea tells her, "but we can certainly help her build skills to build upon. Unfortunately, I wouldn't know how to go about doing that."

There's a small silence, just long enough for Miria to shift her weight to another leg before she says, "Do you know anyone who does?"

"Father Vincent, perhaps, but Sister Cecilia will have the time, most likely. I can ask her." Galatea takes Miria's elbow in her hand and leads her toward the open door where the children's voices float in on the breeze. "Later though. First, we must go or we'll be late."

"We're not finding a secluded hiding place right now," Miria says with frosted words. "Or any time soon."

"Shame on you, Miria. Clean thoughts in front of children."

The way her signature spikes in annoyance at that comment only amuses Galatea, She really is too easy sometimes. She pulls her into the open courtyard where the children play sword fight. Some are running around a tree in the corner. A few boys play King of the Mountain on a rotting tree stump. Beneath the unforgiving midday sun and before she can protest, Galatea announces that Miss Miria has agreed to play and does anyone have a sword she can use?

* * *

Tabitha, Clarice, and Miata are wandering the marketplace downtown, taking in all the wares and products for sale. It's a busy street that winds like a snake through the south side of Rabona, in the residential area of town where the artisans live. The street is decorated with banners celebrating some kind of festival. The tables are packed with beautiful trinkets Clarice has never seen before and she doesn't understand what they're for either. Miata looks over the items with vague interest, but like a child, only colors seem to hold her interest. Clarice gets the feeling, by the way she barely stops to look at anything, that Tabitha is neither bored nor interested though. Maybe that's a side effect from the terrible conditions of Pieta, Clarice thinks.

To be fair, it was Miata who first feels the presence of the youma, a full millisecond before Tabitha shushes Clarice. At the same time Miata and Tabitha turn their heads toward the east, past the walls to the world outside. Miata tugs on Clarice's arm, but her eyes are darting around as she turns her ear to listen.

"What is it, Miata?" Clarice asks.

"An awakened." Tabitha tells her, eyebrows furrowing. "Three warriors have just engaged in a fight with it."

"Are we going to help them?" Clarice asks, stepping toward Tabitha to avoid colliding with the flow of townspeople behind her. They stopped in the middle of the street, causing everyone to wave around them as they continued their conversation. Tabitha is visibly annoyed and then finally closes her eyes.

"It's not a strong awakened, so not unless we have to," she says. "They're warriors so they should be able to handle it. I'll monitor it from here just in case."

Clarice is frowning. She doesn't understand how every warrior she meets is so callous at times. In the Organization, there is all this talk of comrades, but she always finds the camaraderie of warriors situational at best and it bothers her. Before either she or Tabitha can say another word though, Miata jumps and disappears on the roof tops, heading toward the direction of the youna and warriors. Tabitha swears and and takes off after her, yanking Clarice along.

"She can get us into a lot of trouble, that girl," Tabitha says to Clarice.

Clarice runs along side her, eyebrows furrowed as she reaches behind her to readjust the claymore on her back. "Why are you looking at me? I don't know how to control her all the time!"

"You better figure out how soon," Tabitha tells her as they leap to the rooftops above hot on Miata's trail. "She's your partner, isn't she? You should never let your team members enter a battle alone."

Again, that talk of camaraderie, Clarice thinks but says nothing as their feet somehow find stable footing against the clay roofing tile known to wobble. When are we comrades and when are we not? She wonders. Where is the line drawn?

Suddenly, Tabitha stops, shoots out a hand and grabs the back of Clarice's shirt just as Miata makes the distance between the last roof and the wall, her slim physique disappearing completely on the other side.

"What what is it?" Clarice asks. "What are you seeing?"

Tabitha's teeth grind together. "One of the warriors just awakened. And she feels strong."

* * *

Galatea feels the spike in the energy outside the walls. Pity. She had hoped it would have been an every day awakened hunt that didn't involve them, but one of the warriors just had to lose it. Something else must have happened. That was such a weak awakened. The three of them should have taken care of it easily. This new generation, really. No endurance at all.

Tabitha will be here any moment anyway. The mock lesson will have to end here soon, but let it end when it has to. In the few seconds she has, Galatea extends her will and maps the courtyard and the people in it, memorizing the brilliance of the joy that fills their pocket of space.

That was the nice thing about kids. Their joy is never complicated by morals or ethics. It's simply felt. Miria comes to the closest to laughing around them Galatea has ever heard her come. She stands on a stump with a twig dagger as the boys try, one by one, to knock her twig away and tackle her. The stump is big enough for her to side step them easily and they plow right on up and over.

"You can do better than that," she calls after them, uses the crown of Thomas' head as a pivoting point, and easily avoids him. "You're telling me you can't hit someone twice your size?"

Thomas skids on the his heels, the soles of his shoes scraping hard against the packed earth. He turns as quickly as he can and launches himself once more.

"You shouldn't crush the pride of a little boy, Miria," Galatea says, attempting to keep her head straight while the little girls braids her hair. "They grow up angry or damaged."

Thomas slams hard into Miria who catches him with her arms and bringing his puny momentum to a dead halt. The girls stand around watching because they've never seen a girl play King of the Mountain and actually win. Whooping shouts from the boys make Thomas push with all his might. He manages to make her take one step back, but she hunkers down, bending her knees as low as she can to bring her center of gravity level with his. He locks his knees and pushes against her almost at a forty-five degree angle to the ground, refusing to let her move him.

"Not bad, not bad," she tells him and with a quick flick of her foot, taps the back of his rigid knees, collapsing them completely. He crashes to the worn and splintering stump hard, loses his balance and then topples to the ground.

"You gotta watch out for dirty tricks though," Miria says with a chuckle and holds out a hand toward him.

Galatea stands from the grass because their time is up and the braids loosen with the small gust of wind Tabitha causes as she sails through the air over head and lands three feet from the stump.

"Captain, we have a situation," she says, standing to full attention. "A warrior has awakened outside the city walls and Miata's already gone after it."

The change in Miria is immediate. The air around her thickens, like she solidifies in soul. Her aura of night rainfall turns into a steady and serious downpour. Galatea has never longed for her eyes since losing them, but missing Miria's expressions almost makes her start. How magnificent she must look right now to match the authority that comes over her voice. Even the children are bubbling with awe.

"Galatea, stand by just in case."

"There's no need for an Eye who cannot see, I see. We are never the most mourned of the Organization's lap dogs anyway."

"I need an Eye who sees despite not seeing and I would mourn the loss of her," Miria says. "Come fetch us if you feel anything will go wrong."

"I will probably abuse this permission to fetch you at my own discretion, you know."

"I'm certain you will. Tabitha, lead the way."

And then they are gone, becoming arrows of vibration that shoot across the perpetual night of Galatea's world, with the forms of the children crowding around, made up entirely of their own unique energy signatures. Galatea has never been one to dirty her hands unnecessarily. She usually enjoys sitting back and letting others do the heavy lifting. Being told to stand by would not have damaged her pride anyway. She was merely being petulant. Miria's reaction, however, what she said? That surprised her. She has learned something new about Miria. She can charm, even if she isn't even aware that she can. No one can hear Phantom Miria say "I'll miss you" in so many words without feeling heat creep across their cheeks.

"They're going to fight the awakened being?" Little Ann-Marie presses into her leg and wraps her arms around her knee.

"Yes, they are."

"Are they gonna be okay?" A boy named Jacob asks.

"Of course. They're warriors. This is what they do."

"How come you're not gonna fight too?"

Galatea laughs. "Because Miss Miria has told me to stay and make sure you guys aren't scared."

Thomas is dusting off his knees and winces when his fingers brush over a splinter wedged in his skin. "We don't get scared. I'm not a'scared."

Miria and Tabitha have joined with Clarice but they still trail behind Miata who has already caught up with the poor warrior who has awakened. The other two, probably lower ranks, didn't fair so well in the fight. One has just passed. The other hasn't moved in five minutes. Unconscious, most likely. The awakened being has perished. There's only the awakened warrior to take care of now. Shouldn't be too difficult for those three.

She smiles toward Thomas. "You're not? Oh, then maybe she wanted you guys to make sure I'm not scared?"

Some of the little girls gasp and crowd around her with reassuring words. Don't be scared, Sister Latea. We're here. We'll keep the monsters away. She laughs. Funny little things, children. So easy to distract with a little white lie and how easy those little lies slide off her tongue.

Continued...

**A/N:** The original chapter 5 and the rest of the story has been lost when my external died shortly after posting chapter four. It's just as well. It was bad and Miria was out of character, anyway. For such a shippable character, getting her to actually fall believably is a difficult venture. She's. So. Focused. And not easily distracted.


	6. The Poison Tears

**Disclaimer: **I am Norihiro Yagi, says a Japanese guy who is not me.

**6. The Poison Tears**

When they arrive, Miata is leaping out of the way of a splash of crimson. The red droplets hiss upon impact, devouring dirt and severing blades of grass. There's no time to inspect how strong or how fast the toxin works. Best to just avoid it right now. The awakened warrior is sleek, skin hot white that she almost glows. She would be such a sight beneath moonlight. Two antennae shaped like stag antlers lift from the crown of her head and curve around. A mask resembling an animal skull covers her face and red tears trickle down the tear ducts of her hollow eyes. Then there is the the mass of red coils, cascading from her abdomen and dancing along the dirt like snakes.

Her legs are twisted back like a deer but she crouches low, cradling the head of her fallen comrade in the crook of an arm and using the the claws of the other to fling projectiles at Miata. Clarice dodge rolls another spray and catches them from the corner of her eye.

"She's slinging blood," she shouts at them and the awakened warrior fires another volley of liquid red bullets. "It'll eat you alive!"

Tabitha and Miria are quick to evade before the blood can hit them and from the air Miria can see that Clarice has managed to get the unconscious warrior to a safe distance away. She'll have to remember to tel her good job with that.

"Talk to me, Tabitha," Miria says as she lands, drawing her claymore from the belt on her back.

"No tricks here, Captain," Tabitha tells her, flips once in the air and reaches safety by some nearby brush. "Everything is fair target. Normal vital signs. Just take off her head."

"Pests. All pests, cheap shot parasites with no spine," the awakened warrior says with spite dripping from from her words. Her back ruptures and dusty pale green spires reach for the afternoon sky. "Guts, guts, guts. Only thing you want."

Miria normally ignores the talk of an awakened. They are never much of their former selves. The weaker willed ones even struggle to retain conscious thought while being constantly distracted by their urge to feed. Still, since Hilda, Miria has made it a point to know who she is cutting down if time allows. There is still an honor code for comrades. She brandishes her claymore, but stands straighter,

"Tell me your name, warrior," she says.

The awakened warrior scoffs and lifts her masked face to the harsh sun that nearly washes out her celestial white being. The blood tears almost shimmer, stark against her light complexion and trickling down to the warrior's head she carries.

"I was called Phoebe before," she says and then the spires on her back unravel, unfolding into soft moth wings. She lowers her gaze to the head and her voice is almost tender. "This was Arinna."

Miata clears the air behind her, knocking away the spray of snakes who strike as she brings her claymore down hard to the awakened's back. Phoebe flutters her wings some and dust surrounds Miata, invading her lungs and clouding her eyes. She coughs violently and slams against the ground. She grips at her chest, doubling over in pain as she struggles to fill her lungs with air.

"Miata!" Clarice shouts and starts for her, but the sea of snakes hiss, slithering quickly to block her path. "Miria, she's suffocating!"

Miria glances toward Tabitha who only nods and then is in the air before human eyes can follow. Phoebe hisses and flings her poison blood, bringing her gaze back up to find wherever Tabitha has disappeared to, but the sharp sizzle of her essence on metal brings her sight back to Miria who catches the venom with the broadside of her claymore and then slings it to the ground effortlessly.

"No, you don't," Miria says. "Don't take your eyes off me."

The wings aren't completely dry yet. They'll slow her down. They need to finish her off quickly. Miria can tell that Phoebe was just a middle ranker. Even this awakened form shouldn't be difficult, but the dust from those wings could be troublesome for them. Miata has only minutes if they can't get to her.

Phoebe flings her snakes and Miria cuts them down each as she charges. She can see Clarice attempting to the do the same to reach Miata and has to commend her for trying at least. Then Phoebe's long claws slice the air forcing Miria to drop to her knees and push herself up. Her claymore catches the arm and would have severed it cleanly if Phoebe hadn't jumped away with her stag legs. Miria only manages a gash along the shoulder.

"You want my guts too?" Phoebe demands launches herself toward Miria. "That vermin wanted them so bad she ripped the stitching. Ripped me right open right here."

Miria whizzes to Phoebe's side and then leaps away to avoid her claws. She's swiping indiscriminately now, in a desperation that can get one killed. It throws off her balance and she stumbles some, regains her balance but never lets go of Arinna. So that's what happened, Miria thinks. The awakened being opened her up in the middle of the battle. That really is a cheap shot. How long did she fight like that, she wonders? How long did she last with her intestines trailing after her? It must have been excruciating.

"Is that how Arinna died?" Miria asks and she swipes at one of her hoofed feet. "Protecting you as you tried to gather yourself?"

"Arinna could have saved herself instead. She had a choice and she made it." Phoebe rips her tears from her cheeks and shoots her toxic bullets. "It was the wrong choice. To protect stupid little me. She was on my black card, dammit."

The blood flinging was a good trick at the beginning, but you can't manipulate liquid once it's airborne. It's useless against Miria's speed. The eye can only track her after image and she's already gone by the time Phoebe aims. Combat wise, Miria far outclasses her any day.

Tabitha drops beside Miata and tries to read the damage, fingers moving along her chest.

"Get her out of here," Miria yells and catches the claws with her claymore, twisting the blade in an attempt to serrate the fingers, but her hand is rock hard, like diamonds and only a painful screeching of metal against diamond skin grinds in the air.

"Her lungs are full with that dust," Tabitha tells her. "She'll die if I don't get some air in there now."

Phoebe is keen on her presence. The dust explodes once more but Tabitha closes her eyes and holds her breathe as she lifts her claymore. She dodges the flurry of snakes that jab at her from all directions.

"Clarice!" Miria launches herself off Phoebe's knee and aims for the neck, severing an antler.

The next attack of snakes come flying toward Tabitha, but Clarice intercepts, slicing off mouthing heads and knocking away others.

"I've got it, captain," Clarice says through her teeth. "I can do this."

Clarice wedges herself right beside Tabitha, slicing as many as she can to protect them both, but she's inhaled some dust and her eyes are watering and she struggles with perspective sometimes. And warmth spreads through Miria's limbs, pumped by a heart ballooning with pride. Tabitha carefully counts down Miata's ribcage and then angles her claymore, working fast because the girl has stopped moving and both she and Clarice are running out of air. Snake heads are flying around her but she has to focus. She makes the incision, pushing the blade in between two ribs and then quickly pulls the wound open for the exhale of air and golden dust as her lungs collapse. Then she seals the opening with her finger to stabilize her. Miata gasps, eyes flaring open as her lungs re-inflate.

Phoebe twirls to avoid Miria's blade and turns her back on her and the golden pollen from her wings scatters in the breeze. The venom might be easy to avoid but this dust is harder. Miria has to stay up wind of it, create her own drafts to blow it away from them. She has to move fast. But then she sees what Phoebe is doing. Phoebe has drawn Clarice a little too far from Tabitha's side and then slams a foot against her back knocking her away. The sea of snakes thickens between and their hissing drowns out everything else, everything but her voice.

"Guts, guts, guts," Phoebe says and her voice is no longer sorrowful. "I've lost mine so now I need more. One of these will do."

Dread drops heavy in Miria's gut. Clarice and Tabitha are forced to inhale and Clarice immediately tightens and drops to the ground. Tabitha pulls Miata to her feet but her lungs are shrinking fast. From the corner of her eye, Miria sees the snakes and the venom on her claws.

"Choices, choices," Phoebe says. "Who has the guts to make them?"

Choices. Take Phoebe's head and hope to save one from the snakes. Forego Phoebe and try to save them both. Choices, choices, and no time to think. Phoebe launches her crimson snakes at Tabitha and slings a shower of poison rain at Clarice. Miria moves, not by thought, but by instinct. Save the weakest and trust the stronger.

She scoops Clarice up and out of the way of the downpour and turns to look, to see, to pray that she made the right decision. She is horrified at what she sees. Instead of following Miria, Phoebe has turned her claws on Tabitha. The sun glints off her diamond skin and a claw catches the fabric of Tabitha's uniform, at the center of her chest and rips straight down. The sound of it echoes all around.

Miria screams.

It happens in just a moment. The offending arm that has hurt Tabitha is severed first and before it can even hit the dirt, Phoebe's head flies from her shoulders. Galatea lands hard on the packed earth, drops her bloodied claymore, and catches Tabitha, her free hand reaching up to pull her wound shut before it unzips completely. It's only the upper stitches just above the sternum thankfully, and her vitals are still within her, but if they don't replace those stitches soon, the whole wound will pull itself open.

"Miria, grab Miata." Galatea's voice almost explodes in the air, forcing Miria to force back the panic. She's quickly by her side and sets Clarice down.

"Their lungs. The dust," she says but can't find the words to explain with the murder of minutes ticking by.

She counts out Clarice's ribs and punctures her, lets the air push out the dust. When she's breathing on her own, Miria quickly moves to Tabitha who leans on Galatea holding the skin of her chest together. Tabitha is trying to talk but she hasn't the air to push through her vocal chords. Miria tells her to relax and she places her fingers to her chest.

"It's all right, Tabitha. Shh." she says, finds the spot and releases the toxin and Tabitha's knees give way, bringing down Galatea with her as she falls. Miria stands to catch her, steadies her once more in her arms.

"It's all right. We won."

* * *

Tabitha's wound wasn't serious once the three stitches are replaced, but she, Clarice, and Miata are still recovering from the remnants of dust still in their lungs. The unconscious warrior is lying on a bed in the corner. She's unharmed and has already regenerated whatever wound knocked her out. She's young too, Clarice's physical age give or take a year. Surprisingly, it's Sister Cecelia who tends to them, shooing away Miria and Galatea when she places her ear to Miata's chests and listens to them wheeze. Sister Cecilia's eyebrows furrow in concern, unable to hear anything useful. She switches ears.

"Dust?" Sister Cecilia asks. "What do you mean dust?"

"From the awakened being," Miria says with a nod. "Every part of her was poisoned."

Sister Cecilia frowns and stands from her where she kneels beside Miata. She pushes a few strands of blonde hair from the girl's forehead and then turns to face them shaking her head.

"Their airways are inflamed but if you've gotten rid of all the dust, they'll relax eventually, I'm sure," Sister Cecilia says and then wipes the sweat from her hands. "Just let them rest for now."

"Thank you for your concern, Sister," Miria says.

She hadn't meant for Sister Cecilia to worry but Miria supposes the good sister wouldn't know how warrior regeneration happens. Let the sister worry. Concern is touching sometimes. Miria comes to Tabitha's side and the memory of the moment the claw dug deep to catch each stitch flashes in her mind. There is a well of guilt building inside her.

"I was going to try to save you both, Tabitha," she says.

"We're both still alive, Captain." With her eyes closed, Tabitha's lips curl slightly. "I'm glad you saved her first. It would have been embarrassing for me if you thought I needed saving more."

Blindly, she reaches a hand out until Miria takes it in her own, then she squeezes her captain's hand and takes a painful breath, delighting in that small touch. Miria takes a seat on the side of her bed and lets her. Galatea has been quiet through all of this, watching the aftermath of a fight she had not seen. It was the slow suffocation of Miata's energy that had alarmed her, had caused her to untangle herself from the children. She wasted time having to grab her claymore from her room. She could have gotten there sooner, could have helped more. She says none of these things though, especially not now in this intimate moment Tabitha indulges in a private wish.

* * *

Galatea finds her in the courtyard that evening, the very same place she'd spied on her earlier, but Miria is not going through drills. She is sitting on the marble bench replaying that fight and counting the days since the others have been gone. Her claymore stands proudly in the ground beside her, catching the fire of the evening light and she is sharpening a small stick to a point against its edge. She sees Galatea standing at the edge of the corridor and clears her throat.

"She was a weak awakened," Miria says, offering the words in the stifling silence between them. "It shouldn't have ended like that."

"You can wish for all the speed you want," Galatea tells her, steps soft on the trodden earth as she makes her way to her, "but it doesn't change anything. In the end, you still made the right choice."

"Tabitha almost died."

"Hardly something to consider. She's a warrior. She knows the consequences of being one. Don't treat her like a child."

"I don't treat her like a child," Miria says with a scoff, but Galatea frowns.

"You can't keep them in your pocket forever, Miria," she says. "You have to let them grow up."

The words are harsh and Miria understands why Galatea says them, but they do little to assuage the root of the problem. She returns to sharpening the stick, shaving off thin layers. She trusts herself to make good decisions even when there's no time to make them, but everything about this fight bothers her. Tabitha couldn't breathe. Her lungs were shriveling fast. What could she have asked of the girl while she was going through the process of dying? Miria doesn't know. She needs time to clear her head to properly think about this.

And then there was Phoebe who willingly handicapped herself by refusing to let go of her comrade's head, who lashed out irrationally only to pull herself back to think up such a horrible choice. Why would you do that? Limit yourself in a fight against an opponent who is a better fighter than you? It's the exact opposite of what Miria would do. She thinks of Hilda for a moment and perhaps she comes to understand a little.

"Whose symbol did you write on your black card?" she asks.

"My black card is blank. I never had intentions of sending it out." Galatea draws in a breath and then eases herself on the marble bench beside her.

"That sounds pompous," Miria says and turns to look at her. "No one has intentions to awaken."

Galatea is shaking her head thoughtfully. "No, you've got the wrong idea. It wasn't that I thought I wouldn't awaken. I was just never close enough with another warrior to put her symbol on my card."

"That's the difference between you and me, Galatea," Miria says setting the sharpened stick aside and reaching over to release her black card from the hilt of her sword. "We're all in this war together. That's why every warrior's life is important to me."

"But not equally. You're good at being noble, but be honest. What troubles you right now is that it was Tabitha who almost died." Galatea leans back on her hands, palms flat against the cool marble and tilts her head back. "You're level headed enough to make fair decisions, Miria, but the loss of one of your six northern companions will hit you harder than any one else. Admit that at least."

Miria looks at the card in her hand as the lighting in the courtyard dims by the second when the sun slips behind the surrounding hills. She gazes at Hilda's symbol etched roughly on the glossy surface and fixes a section with the nail of her thumb.

"If I say that, I'm no longer a leader."

"Then don't say it."

A heavy silence falls on their shoulders. She picks up the stick she sharpened so meticulously and starts scratching in the symbols of every one of her northern companions. Helen, Deneve, Clare, Tabitha, Yuma, Cynthia. With a quick glance toward Galatea who has, respectfully, said nothing this entire time, she finally scratches in Galatea's symbol in the last free space she has. Then she drops the stick and hides the card away once more.

"Finished?"

"Yeah."

"That new warrior is awake. We should probably get her taken care of and on her way."

"You're right," Miria says and stands from the bench, pulling her claymore from the ground and sliding it beneath the belt slung across her shoulder. She turns to Galatea and extends her hand but says nothing, waiting silently. It's merely a test of curiosity on her part, one she has no intentions of voicing however way it plays out.

Galatea takes it and Miria pulls her to her feet.

Continued...

**Next:** "Whoever said warriors couldn't love?" Most likely.


	7. Separating Loyalty and Love

**Disclaimer:** Send all monetary admirations to Most-Likely Tokyo, Office Building Awesome, Entertainment Ward, Japan 162-0842 c/o Norihio Yagi.

**7. Separating Loyalty and Love**

She said her name was Lucian. She is a quiet thing a little shorter than Miria with watchful eyes but a tongue that doesn't like to voice what she observes. When they ask her if she's fully regenerated, she swings her feet off the bed, and stands, looking for her claymore, but Miria can see a trembling along her fingers. Sister Cecilia catches her eye from across the room and Lucian quickly looks away. She doesn't ask any questions, though Miria can see a quiet panic.

"You're in Rabona," Miria tells her, "amongst fellow warriors. You're free to go whenever you please. We will not stop you."

Lucian is quiet and when she speaks her voice quivers nervously. "Phoebe and Arinna?"

"They're taken care of."

"Buried?"

"In the first patch of trees southwest of the main road."

"Together?"

"I promise, they're proper warrior graves."

"Show me."

Miria gives a quick glance to the others in the room and concedes. They've already recovered and Tabitha is quick to her feet to accompany them, but Miria shakes her head and tells her to stay, for them all to stay. So they stay, if not out of respect to Miria herself, than out of respect for the deathly calm look she gave them. Cecilia has taken Miata to the baths a few minutes ago, giving Clarice a little breathing room and she pulls herself to the edge of the bed closest to the others as Galatea pulls up a chair and sits down.

"She's a scary one, isn't she?"

"The captain?" Clarice asks.

"She meant Lucian," Tabitha answers, drawing a knee up. "She's a tight ball of anxiety even if her face doesn't show it."

"That's not too surprising," Clarice says, draping her arms across the wooden bed frame and resting her chin on her hands. "Those two were like her life, I hear."

"So you knew them?" Galatea says, and leans back against the chair.

"Only by reputation." Clarice makes a face at the tugging of her hair and situates herself so she's closer and more comfortable. "Phoebe and Arinna were called the Lovers. They sort of looked out for Lucian when no one else would. She's a little weird, yeah?"

"Who gave them that nickname?" Tabitha asks. "Pair bonding happens all the time. Look at Helen and Deneve. It doesn't have to be given that description."

Galatea eases back, folding her arms thoughtfully and says, "How would you describe it?"

"Loyalty," Tabitha answers, matter-of-factly, and unwavering. "Basic, honest loyalty and nothing short of it."

Galatea has to give her that one. That was usually the definition given to the bonds between warriors. The average lifespan of a warrior was laughably short compared to a human's. She's trained for seven and she's lucky to last her first ten years on the field. In such a short amount of time, the only universal feeling every warrior understands is loyalty.

Clarice is frowning, though, as if remembering something that doesn't quite work with that definition. She says, "There's loyalty to your comrades and then there's the kind of loyalty you can only give one other person, because it's a betrayal to give more than one person that same sort of loyalty. That's how the Lovers were. What's that kind of loyalty called?"

"No one in this room knows what that's called, Clarice. We've never felt it," Galatea says knowing full well what a lie that is. When the others had taken off to take care of the loose ends of their lives, Tabitha stayed behind. Everyone knows why, but no one wants to say it. It's not their place to.

In the stillness of the room, Tabitha gives her a curt expression and says, "Get out of my heart. Now."

"My apologies." Galatea concedes with a small smile on her face. She deserved that. She had been reaching her will across the room covertly, but stealth isn't possible now that Tabitha knows what it feels like.

"You think you can just trample all over someone else's heart?" Tabitha says and her sharp words are accented with spite, "and then just apologize with a smirk like that fixes everything? It doesn't."

"Would you rather I do a little song and dance?"

Tabitha scowls. "I don't know what the Captain sees in you."

She's angry, but she's rubbing her thumb against the heel of the palm that held Miria's hand and her heart is boiling over. Galatea doesn't have to read her heart to know what's going on. She's seen it all too many times here in Rabona, felt people swallowed whole by feelings they can't express for whatever reason, but she's learned it hurts for someone to point it out. Galatea does it anyway.

"She sees the same thing in me that she sees in you. In all of us, really. A comrade, Tabitha, and nothing more."

Once upon a time, Tabitha may have thrilled to hear this, but now is no longer that time. She grabs her claymore from the bedpost, slings it across her back, and marches out of the room, throwing the doors open in a huff.

* * *

Lucian has pilfered a shovel from a farmer's wagon and sets to work on Arinna's grave, moving the freshly upturned earth to the side. Miria offers to help but she's answered with a shake of her head and a cold silence. This girl really isn't one for words. When she should be nearing the body, her movements become more delicate, until she finally discards the shovel and drops to her knees.

"They were always together," she finally says. "They need to be together."

"They were so close they need one grave?"

This earns her a testy look from over Lucian's shoulder. "You wouldn't understand."

"Explain to me so that I do."

"It was different for them." Lucian is frowning now and returns to moving mounds of dirt. "They shouldn't be buried as comrades. It's not right they don't lie in death together."

Miria muses on the idea that comrades is not a proper enough a description for Lucian. What else could there be? She watches as she works to uncover Arinna until she drops the shovel and bends on her knees, pushing the dirt away with her hands. It's a terrible thing to see, grave digging. There isn't much belief as far as the afterlife in a warrior's life and Miria has never put much thought in her own grave. Her own death, of course, but never for where she would lie and who would be left to bury her.

"Did they know each other before the procedure?" she asks and Lucian shakes her head and wipes sweat with the back of her hand, smudging a streak of dirt across her forehead.

"No, they were a generation a part." She glances toward the swords stabbed straight into the earth. "You mixed up the swords."

Lucian uncovers Arinna's body and then her head and digs a space where she can drop into the grave to hook her elbows beneath her arms. Miria bends to lift her feet and the two of them haul her up onto level ground.

The rest of the work is easy so Miria leans against a tree and watches as Lucian scoops up Arinna's head, lays it gently in her own hands, and then picks up the shovel once more turning to Phoebe's grave, more intimidating in length and height. It takes her a a while, but she finally reaches the body and when the earth loosens and falls away, Phoebe's hot white skin catches the moonlight and reflects it like electric heat. She would have been a sight, moving through the trees beneath a hunter's moon in the dead of the night.

Miria has flashes of frozen ice and bitter wind. She remembers the seven of them digging all the graves in Pieta, sorting bodies and weapons, and making sure each was properly honored. She remembers what that first shovel full of dirt felt like once a a body is lain. It's a dead finality, the moment you can no longer deny.

Lucian uncovers a pocket of space in Phoebe's arms and nestles Arinna inside, setting her head atop her shoulders. Then, as silently as she did before, she reburies them, covering up the evidence of their bond beneath layers of dark earth where the eyes of the world can no longer see. Oh. Of course. How stupid, Miria, of course. Whoever said warriors couldn't love? Lucian stakes their claymores side by side in the ground and then drops to her knees and Miria understands that it's her time to leave.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says, thinks to say more, but knows the futility of it. She'll never see this warrior again. She turns on her heel and quietly slips away.

* * *

She sees Tabitha on the road back, waving an arm to catch her attention. Loyal Tabitha who would follow her right into hell with no reservations simply because she asked, who, up in the north, swallowed her exhaustion every day, brandished her claymore in her blistered hands, and said with determination, "One more time, Captain."

What am I asking of you, Tabitha? Do I even have the right to ask it?

"We were getting worried about you," Tabitha says with a smile when she nears. "You were taking longer than we thought you would."

Miria is still for a moment, studying her face. Then she says, "Tabitha, dodge."

The first attack comes before Tabitha is ready and forces her back, the hair by her cheeks lifting with the breeze made by the speed of Miria's blade. She draws her claymore in time to catch it when it comes back around, stopping it from tearing open her side with a harsh clanging of metal.

"Did something happen?" Tabitha asks her. "Not that I'm complaining..."

Miria says nothing. With a mere flick of her wrist, she knocks the tip of her blade away, and within milliseconds she's closed the distance between them, bringing the hilt of her weapon up for a strike to the face. Tabitha just barely pulls her head out of range and drops to the ground.

Miria is moving fast with crude form that takes Tabitha off guard. Her knee comes up and lands square against her chest in a bruising hit that rushes the air from her lungs. Tabitha is winded but her claymore is up over her head to block the attack from above as she fights to recover. With the sheer muscle power of her legs, she pushes Miria up and off her, and finally gets that first breath in. She's in the air quick in an attempt to gain distance, but Miria is right with her.

She has to get used to this. There are warriors with fighting styles not like any of theirs. She has to be prepared for anything.

Her sword comes in from the side and Tabitha has to turn in the air to knock it away, leaving her completely open for Miria to hook an elbow around her arm and sling her to the ground. Just to land on her feet, she has to somersault in the air and catches how Miria lets her claymore fall first, straight down. Once it sinks into the ground, Miria uses the broad side of it to launch herself toward Tabitha, the sheer speed ripping the blade through the earth after her. Every movement of her sword forces Tabitha in a certain direction, right into another waiting attack. She has no time to respond, no chance to gain ground. Miria is on her heels at every turn.

She barely has time to stand before Miria phases behind her, to the side, above her, and finally attacks from right below her chin, causing her to jump back, lifting her jaw to avoid losing it completely. Then, as sudden as she started, Miria stops and withdraws.

She turns her back to her, letting the heavy tip of her claymore sink to the ground half-heartedly as she tilts her head toward the night sky. Miria closes her eyes and breathes, trying to pull the calm from deep within the mess inside her.

Tabitha will die on this mission. There's a good chance they all will, honestly, but Miria can't accept that. She refuses to see another warrior kneel on the soft-turned earth of a fresh grave with hands covered in dirt and a face stained with tears. Not for the Organization. Not ever again.

"That's enough for tonight, Tabitha," she says. "Head back first. I'll be along shortly."

Tabitha lingers for a moment and Miria wonders if she can sense the terrible decision she's made tonight, but because she is so trustworthy, she mutters an affirmative, and then silently backs away. Miria brings her gaze to the rise of the eastern ridge. Galatea had told her that a leader has the added burden of staying alive, for the sake of their team, not knowing that Miria had never wanted to be a leader. She only wants to save lives, but the measure of her success has never included her own.

* * *

Something's wrong, Tabitha knows. Something is bothering her captain,. She had a perfect chance to peek into her heart to see what it is, but she couldn't do it. It wasn't out of respect or loyalty this time. It was out of sheer cowardice. Her captain fought with coarse moves tonight, things she'd told her were dirty movements. It just didn't seem like her. She was testing her for something and she's pretty sure she failed. That moment Miria turned her back to her with her head tilted and her shoulders so heavy, Tabitha didn't want to tiptoe into her soul to find only disappointment awaiting her. She couldn't bare that but now she regrets it completely.

She curses herself and jumps the gates of Rabona, kicking the wooden wheel of a nearby wagon when she stands. What is happening to them? And why does she feel like they're falling apart?

* * *

"Slowly now. There's no need to rush," Sister Cecelia says as she maneuvers Miata's eager fingers to properly weave the colored threads. "There you are. Perfection."

The two of them, along with Clarice, have settled down to work on weaving the ropes Clarice had seen earlier that day. Sister Cecelia has taken a liking to Miata, and to Clarice by extension, and Galatea wonders if its children the good sister likes. If so, there's something the two of them have in common, a somewhat wicked thought that causes a smirk.

The rush of emotions between Miria and Tabitha earlier had pierced the darkness and she waits the fifteen minutes Miria stands so quiet and so still. Galatea can feel it. These peaceful days are ending soon. Miria is growing restless, but Galatea can only feel one warrior approaching on the horizon and it's not the same energy as any of the five who took off over a month ago.

"What are these for anyway?" Clarice asks, examining her starter rope to see where she'd gone wrong.

"They're for the Burning," Sister Cecelia says. "It happens on the night of our town's anniversary. Every thread represents a regret and we burn them and send them to God."

"Everyone has to weave one of these things?"

"Some people aren't skilled or are too busy during the year, so we Sisters weave some they can purchase. They pray their regrets into the thread and it works just as well."

Galatea folds her arms across her chest and rests her back against the wood frame of the chair she sits in. She bows her head and says, "The Burning is in two weeks time, Clarice. Perhaps you and Miata will have one finished by then that you can offer?"

Clarice's energy spikes. "Really? We can participate too?"

Sister Cecelia casts a glance toward Galatea before smiling to Clarice, "Of course. Everyone has regrets and everyone should get rid of them."

Regrets, huh? Galatea thinks. If only Sister Cecelia knew the kinds of regrets warriors are prone to. The air suddenly turns dense and Miria steps into the open doorway but stops, probably surveying the room for Tabitha. Galatea allows herself the time to sit properly in the chair.

"She's not here. Whatever you said hurt her."

"Has she returned at all?"

"A short while ago," Galatea says. "She's loves you, you know."

The silence that befalls the room is a blend of three different kinds. From the weavers' corner, it's one of quiet anxiety at potentially overhearing something they shouldn't hear. Galatea's is a silence of patience, waiting to see Miria's reaction at the use of a word whose proper definition they'd never bothered to learn. From Miria, it is a silent and sorrowful resignation.

She enters the room and then says, "I know."

"I mean that she's in love with you."

Miria's voice is softer and she says it again.

"I know."

Galatea isn't sure what reaction she had been hoping for, but she knows that this isn't it even if it's the one she'd expected. Serious Miria so loved by others but so focused on her mission. Of course, she would have sympathy. Of course, she couldn't return such a feeling, especially in such a time. Why had Galatea expected otherwise? Maybe because it would have made it easier for her to grin and slip in her own heart to poke another dent at Miria's annoyance. _Of course, who could blame her? You've all the attributes for us to fall for. Perhaps I'm more to taste? _

But she doesn't say this, not even now knowing who the warrior is who's making her way toward Rabona. If her mission hasn't changed from their previous encounters, she has until noon tomorrow when Dietrich the Tracker arrives to take her head. Miria isn't the only one counting down the days. Even so, Galatea can't bring herself to be honest and she can't bring herself to lie. What a horrible moment this turned out to be.

She lowers her head and says, "Don't be cruel, Miria."

She catches the fluctuation in Miria's vibration, knows her phantom Six has thought of something Galatea can't own up to yet. She stands from the chair and exits the room because even if she could, there were too many ears around for such a truth.

Continued...

**Next:** Dietrich

**A/N:** I'm considering extending the scope of this story to include a chapter or an epilogue set after the fall of the Organization and the return of Clare. I'm waiting for the next manga chapter first. Also, sometimes, I want to shake Miria. Fight together, die together. Don't deny them that honor.


	8. The Promises We Make

**Disclaimer: **The deeds to the story and the characters of the property known as Claymore rest within the offices of lawyers who represent Norihiro Yagi and Shounen Jump (including all international subsidiaries of the latter). I am the undersigned renter of said property.

**8. The Promises We Make**

Clarice carries her mug of sour smelling beer across the busy tavern, spies Tabitha at a two-seater and then takes a seat on the other side. There is a window behind her, thrown open to catch a breeze and Tabitha gazes out at the hazy heat, cradling a mug of beer in her hand.

"So," Clarice says, slipping her thumb through the loop of her mug. "You and the captain, huh?"

Tabitha rests her elbow on the back of the chair and then says, "I guess so."

"You could have done worse."

"That's not encouraging. She's the Captain," Tabitha says with an eyebrow arching on her forehead, neither of them understanding the subtle but distinct difference in the way each of them use the word 'captain.' "I couldn't have aimed higher."

"I don't think you were aiming exactly when it happened though." Clarice shrugs. "But she knows now. So it's all right, isn't it?"

The voices of a few drunken soldiers drifts over the room as they chant an anthem, words of beautiful damsels in need of help and a brave knight who drops everything to save her, all for the chance to kiss her dainty hand. Clarice notices how Tabitha is quiet for the duration of the verse, notices the way her eyes squint at a line she doesn't like, and then a small dishonest smile curls at the corner of her lips.

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that," she says, lifting her beer. She catches the amber liquid long since flat in her glass and sets the mug down without taking a drink. "It's all right though. I'm not asking for anything to be returned. Nothing's changed between us."

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that either," Clarice says, swishing her beer and watching the foam swivel along the rim. She dares to take a sip and then coughs, turning her nose at the bitterness and the surprising warmth that crawls down her throat. "What is this stuff? Who would want to drink this?"

Tabitha chuckles. "Don't sip. Just swallow so you don't actually taste it. It's a lot better that way."

Clarice gags again, scrunching her nose once more and pushes the beer away. "Yuck. This stuff is awful."

"There's wine. That might suit your palette a bit better."

"I think I'll just... not drink alcohol today," Clarice says with a frown. "Or ever again."

"Fair enough. It's too early for it anyway. I've had this one since last night, but I don't like it as much when it goes flat." Tabitha taps her mug with a fingernail. Then she pushes her chair back.

Clarice watches her, surprised. "You're leaving?"

"There's something I can't miss right now. Ask the bartender for something more palpable. I'm sure he can find something."

"Oh." Clarice nods and then watches her leave. "Thanks. I guess."

* * *

She stands on the roof of the cathedral facing toward the east. Every day at high noon, both she and Tabitha sit for an hour overlooking the horizon for any trace of their companions. They hadn't planned it. It was just something they fell into together during their wait.

The cathedral has the best vantage point because it offers a three hundred and sixty degree view that stretches for miles. Miria is a few minutes early only because since daybreak she's been outside the walls training in a clearing inside a patch of trees, pushing her limit and trying to control it. Just a little more speed, a few more adjustments to find the points to altar course on a moment's breath.

Behind her, the door to the roof opens and Tabitha comes to stand beside her.

"No signs," Miria says, but the awkward silence Tabitha has carried with her remains. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle cries and she tracks her ear to listen.

"In the village I was born, there are a couple trees wound tight with string," Tabitha says. "We tied up belongings of loved ones lost to youma on those strings. Boots, sandals, old toys, wedding rings... It's supposed to remind us to be honest to those we love."

"That sounds like a wonderful tradition."

"I tied up on my brother's dagger, my mother's comb, and my father's leather belt. And then I was taken east."

Miria starts to speak but stops when she sees the solemn way Tabitha shakes her head.

"I would follow you anywhere, Captain. I won't even ask where," she says. "Just let me stay by your side and I promise, I won't let you down."

If it were only so simple as that, Miria thinks, as she reaches over and takes gentle hold of her elbow. She uses the small touch to guide her into her arms, cradling the back of her head with her hand.

"You've never let me down," she tells her. "Whatever happens in the future, don't ever think that you weren't enough for me."

Tabitha stiffens in her arms, but then sinks into the embrace, lowering her head until her forehead is resting against Miria's shoulder.

"That's the thing, Captain. No one is really good enough for you. That's the only thing that Galatea and I agree on."

Miria frowns and means to say something, but she's hit with two powerful yoki, flashing bright in the distant east. Both she and Tabitha pull away, eyes narrowing as they try to detect more. Alice and Beth? Amazing. They're on par with an abyssal one. A lot has happened since they've been away. There's a small cough behind them and Galatea steps into the doorway.

"I came to inform you of a yoki I've picked up," she says, "but the more immediate concern is the approach of a warrior on yoki suppressing medication. She'll be arriving shortly."

Miria is gone before Galatea can take her next breath leaving both she and Tabitha on the roof. They regard each other silently at first, feeling the heavy seconds crawl by.

"Were you listening?" Tabitha asks her to which Galatea shakes her head.

"I doubt it's much consolation for you, but I didn't intend to. I know my place, Tabitha, and it's not by her side like yours."

Tabitha gives a faint nod and then places a foot on the railing that runs along the roof. "We better catch up to her."

Then she's in the air with the wind rushing by, soaring from roof to roof and over the citizens of Rabona as she makes her way to the wall Miria has already disappeared over.

* * *

Miria's first impression of Dietrich is that she is calm and observant. Her eyes catch both Tabitha's and Galatea's landing before Miria hears the soft padding of their feet on the ground behind her, before she sees the small rise of the dirt cloud they've kicked up. Dietrich's natural eye color is a light brown, the color of roasted nuts over an open fire.

Her eyes track to the left and she acknowledges Galatea. "To think you were hiding yourself here of all places."

Miria has been cataloging Galatea's laughs. The one she lets out now is slightly haughty and she uses it when there's something obvious in the air that she doesn't want put into words.

"Your persistence caused me a great deal of trouble."

So Dietrich's the one who's been tracking Galatea, Miria thinks. She files it away for later. Right now, it's more important she hear this message from Helen and Deneve. There's something rigid about Dietrich's voice, impersonal. She neither blinks nor embellishes Deneve's words, reciting them without vocal inflection or commentary. The defeat of Isley, the dispatching of Alicia and Beth, these new creatures that only feed without thought of consciences. So that's what the Organization has been plotting. It's fine if they produced a generation of half-finished warriors because they don't need ordinary warriors right now. They've released their trump cards and there are still probably others more in wait.

Dietrich finishes her recitation but when Miria tries to ask for more information, Dietrich is quick to shut her down.

"If you mean to do battle with the Organization, then it's for the Organization I will ultimately draw my blade," she says, unapologetically.

There's no need for her to apologize, anyway. Miria has to admire her loyalty and drive even if it is for the other side. This isn't a confrontation where she can expect fellow warriors to flock to her side easily. They each have to make their choices according to their conscience, and the time to make that choice is coming quickly.

As suddenly as she appeared, Dietrich turns on her heel.

"I've done what has been asked of me. I'll take my leave now."

Galatea calls after her, "Are you not going to try to capture me?"

Over her shoulder, Dietrich says, "I'm not here under orders from the Organization. This was a separate matter entirely. You may go free for now."

Miria casts a quick glance toward Galatea, notices her bare hands, and her eyebrows furrow. No claymore and nonchalantly asking such a thing from her tracker. That doesn't sit well for her. Still, she has to process all this information first. How much time does she have? She's not quite at the speed she needs to be before the abyssal ones are taken out. She just needs a few more days, maybe even a week.

Beside her, Tabitha pieces it together and the three of them stand with the full realization resting firm on their shoulders. War is coming to Lautrec and it is coming fast.

* * *

Sister Cecilia has inducted Sister Camille in accessing Miata's mental capacity. It's almost like a series of games they play, but each one is specifically tailored to judge her level of comprehension and the state of her mental faculties. Miria is impressed when she comes into the room to find that they've somehow managed to get the girl to tend to her own hair. Normally, Clarice spends forty minutes each morning and night trying to get her to sit still long enough to get the tangles out.

Miata often brandishes the brush like a claymore, but she handles the strokes through her hair without kicking up a fuss.

"That's amazing," she says, coming to kneel in front of Miata. For the first time, she can see the girl's face completely. She reaches over and pushes hair from her forehead. "How long did it take you to do this?"

"Just about the whole day," Sister Camille says proudly. "We had to phase Clarice out of the picture. Miata's too paranoid or protective when Clarice is around."

"I bet she didn't like that," Miria says, standing and patting Miata's head.

"Oh, the first time was absolutely wretched," Camille tells her, glancing down when Miata taps her forearm. "But Clarice would pop her head in until she calmed down and then leave for a longer amount of time."

Miria is nodding and crossing her arms across her chest. "The loss of her family must have been traumatic, we think, but the Organization isn't built to repair minds."

"She's not unlike a much younger child." Sister Cecilia picks up half a peeled orange and offers a wedge to Miata. "She's curious and bright. She figures out what we're about to do before we do it half the time. But then she'll stop and just... listen and forget whatever she's doing."

"That's her warrior side," Miria tells them, watching as Miata takes the orange wedge and then tosses it on the table. "I'm afraid she has senses better developed than anyone else's. If I could ask that you don't discourage that part of her?"

Cecilia holds Miria in a dreadful gaze before she tentatively nods and says, "I don't think a child like her should be forced into that life, but I will do my best."

"I agree that a child shouldn't, sister," Miria says but makes it a point not to mention that nearly all warriors are Miata's age or younger when they start the journey to be a warrior. "I appreciate your help."

From the corner of her eye she catches Galatea pause in the open doorway before walking off again and Miria excuses herself and chases after her. Her footsteps echo all around her and she turns a corner to see Galatea pull open the wooden door of her quarters.

"So that's it?" Miria calls after her. "This morning with Dietrich. You were going to let her take your head, just like that?"

Galatea pauses, a hand resting on the copper handle. Her shoulders slump slightly and she says, "You and I both know that's what happens to all deserters sooner or later."

"Only because the Organization said so," Miria says, closing the distance between them. She can't fight the anger seeping into her words. "There's no reason any warrior should have to die, least of all at the hands of another warrior."

The way Galatea cranes her head now to catch her voice unnerves her because combined with the small smile on her lips, Miria knows this to be the way she looks when she's not saying half the things she's thinking.

"You'd rather I fight?" Galatea asks. "I've been dodging Dietrich for years. I've made my peace with this a long time ago."

Mira glares at her, wishing she could see her face, the disappointment in it to match the way her voice ricochets off the stone walls.

"_I _haven't."

Further down the hallway, two brothers stop to look at them and with a sigh, Galatea reaches out a hand and pulls her into the room, shutting them behind the privacy of a closed door. Miria yanks her arm from her grasp.

"What good would it do anyone if you were to die?" she demands. "What use would it serve? You make these decisions on your own and talk about the private thoughts of others, but you'll carry your own to your grave?"

Galatea laughs callously, flicking hair from her eyes. "Will the tough captain miss me? I should be honored."

A hand shoots out and grabs a fist full of the black uniform Galatea wears, pulling her close. It doesn't matter that she's several inches taller. Miria still pulls her down to her level and demands an honest answer to her honest question.

"What's the point of you throwing your life away like that?"

"No. You don't get to do that," Galatea tells her, reaching up and prying open the fist that grips her clothing. Her voice is laced with a judgment that rarely touches her voice. "You don't get to keep people alive just because you'll miss them and then turn around and throw yours away the next day. I don't care how noble your cause is."

"You have no idea what I've decided to do."

Galate's eyebrows furrow. "Someone who doesn't value her own life has no say in how I choose to spend mine."

"What would you have me do then? Tell me what I can do that will better appease you," Miria says through her teeth, but she peels her fingers open and releases the hold she has. "If I can't die for them, what else can I do?"

She's prepared for sarcasm, for this argument to heat up even more, but Miria is not prepared for the way Galatea's voice softens, the way she turns away from her and tries to gain a little distance between them.

"You've got it all wrong," she says. "It's not about dying for them. It's, at the moment you are about to die, about living for them instead, no matter how painful or how hard. I'm inconsequential, but you? Do you really not see, Miria? How absolutely loved you are?"

Love. Who expects to be loved, really? Miria never has. For a moment, she hates that Galatea faces straight ahead and she reaches up to touch her cheek, to bring her face toward her, so at least it feels like she listens. At the touch of her fingertips though, Galatea nearly jumps, as if the touch was something she'd never expected.

What a change it is to take the former number three by surprise. What a change to see a pure reaction from her that isn't filtered through thought and then strategically placed into words. Miria cups her cheek in her palm

"You are not inconsequential. I will save you, Galatea," she says as if it's a secret no one else should hear. "Let me save you."

There is something painful in the way Galatea succumbs to her touch, something that cannot be articulated easily into words. She closes her eyes and tilts her head and her hands come up to hold Miria's. How long has it been since she has let anyone but children touch her?

"What have you done to me?" Galatea lets out a soft chuckle that does little to cover the ache in the words. Her lips scrape against the palm that holds her still. "And how could you leave me in such a terrible state?"

It is a moment of razor blade breath that holds a heart ransom against its sharpened edge. It is a terrible silence that spins together all the words they've said and threatens to spill the ones they didn't before they are fully formed, left to fragment in the open air between them. Miria lifts on her toes and gives her a kiss so honest it can bruise the pride of any warrior and bring her to her knees.

"If Dietrich returns before the Organization falls," she says, "you promise me you make it hard for her."

"Who am I to refuse the request of such a pretty Six?" Galatea asks. "I promise only if you promise. Save the world if you must, but then come back here to me. I shall not forgive you if you don't."

Continued...

**A/N:** I skimmed through the canon parts since you've already read it in the manga.

kstefan88 said in a review that s/he didn't understand what people saw in this pairing. This is my short answer. They make for interesting interaction that can result in mutual growth and an equality that creates a level of comfort where they can call each other out on their bs knowing the other will actually listen. This is just my taste in relationship dynamics and certainly is not meant to discredit other pairings. P.S. I haven't forgotten Galatea's experiment.


	9. The Bitter Bite of Cold

**Disclaimer: **I have decided to propose a marriage of convenience to Norihiro Yagi if only to put "step-owned" here. Until then, I claim no rights or monetary value here.

**Chapter 9: The Bitter Bite of Cold**

When Miria's blade sinks into the flesh of every warrior the Organization has on hand, there are no thoughts in her head. Usually she is constantly analyzing and letting her body translate move at the right moment while her thoughts are several steps ahead. On this day, however, she doesn't think in words. Images play in her head of Hilda's smile, her short hair uneven at the ends and the way the wind makes them scrape against her pale cheek. She sees the way her awakened form towered over them and its tortured face. Mira's chest swells with the memory. Each time her sword shed blood her hands remembered the way it felt to take off Hilda's head.

Miria could close her eyes and immerse herself in these images, in the emotions she used to drive her here. She trusts the skill of her sword to avoid fatal wounds, but she wants to see every warrior who took up arms for the Organization, wants to look into their eyes. What innocence she sees as she out maneuvers them. What loyalty manipulated by ignorance. They are mushroom buds cultivated by the Organization, white fragile buttons kept in the dark and fed refuse.

Every hit she lands is delivered with a promise coupled with a piece of her heart, as if to say, _It won't hurt for long, comrades. By the time you wake up, you'll finally know what freedom feels like._

And then there is nothing but Hilda. Everything else is forced from her mind. The memory of Hilda's awakened form, of the dark dread in her eyes when Miria took her head, as well as the faces of everyone she met after. They vanish as quickly as they come and all she can see, all she can remember is Hilda's smile and her name on her lips.

_You've gotten better, Miria. _

"Hilda? Is that you?" Miria asks, stopping in her tracks to look and to listen.

She sees Hilda before her, smiling and that old familiar joy rushes through her. It is Hilda. She's right here now. She can set down her sword and let Hilda take over now. How long has it been since she's felt like this? This childish relief that the presence of one person can make everything okay? She stretches out her arms and the happiness makes the first tears fall.

"It is you. I've found you, Hilda," she says and gives her old comrade a hug. "I've come to save you."

Miria cannot see the first blade strike, or the next, nor the hundred afterward. She does even feel it when the first limb goes flying. After all, Hilda is here now and everything is all right. She can't even remember now why they had been apart or for how long. All she knows is that the sky around her goes dark and she no longer can see or feel anything and she is so very tried.

_Save…_

Miria dreams of Hilda. She sees her back against the mountainous landscape owning the skies. She dreams that she calls after her but the wind howls and carries her voice away along with the shredded pieces of a black card. She can't help but feel like she's forgetting something. She doesn't even know how she came to be here or where it is she had intended to go.

"Hilda! Hilda, I've come to save you! I've gotten your card."

Hilda looks over her shoulder at her, smiles. " You don't remember at all, do you? You don't belong here, Miria. You have to go back."

"What? I don't understand."

"Don't let the Organization make you forget who you are," Hilda says and steps back toward the edge of the cliff face. "You're no longer my number seventeen. You became number six."

The wind grows cold and angry now, whipping hair about violently. _Save the world… _Miria shivers and tries to follow as a fog of snowy ice begins to cloud Hilda's face. She is disappearing in the oncoming storm and Miria has to shield her eyes to see her take another step. She calls after her, running.

"You've already saved me, remember?" Hilda says, the wind threatening to drown out her voice entirely. "Now remember the others you need to save."

Hilda steps off the cliff and disappears and Miria stumbles across the frozen dirt after her. Her toe catches against something hard and metallic. She glances down to see a mound of fresh earth quickly icing over with a claymore stabbed into the ground at one end. The cliff is gone and before her stretches a frozen graveyard, seventeen in total laid to rest in the white tundra, remembered only by six cloaked figures. She sees them now letting the last shovel full drop on the last grave. Their names came before she officially remembered and she called them out one by one. Helen. Deneve. Clare. Cynthia. Yuma. Tabitha, fierce Tabitha she cut down to come here alone. But wait, there are three more has to keep safe against this biting cold. Clarice. Miata. Of course, how could she forget them? And Galatea, tall and mischievous Galatea whose face she cannot see but whose voice echoes all around her.

_Save the world if you must… _

Miria remembers. She calls after them all, tearing through the graveyard and the snow crystals that sting her cheeks and just as she is about to reach forward and touch them, she is ripped away by blinding light.

_But then come back here to me. _

She is lying on her back and her eyes finally focus on a crowd of faces that hover over her. She remembers some of them, faces met on the field just before she cut them down. Those same colorless eyes now filled with something that wasn't there before. Two of them extend an arm to her and pull her up from the cold ground and Miria sees that the warmth in their eyes has spread to all the others who stand around watching and waiting for her the silence to break beneath this unbearable pressure.

One of the warriors who pulled her from the ground, hair long and golden and facial features delicate to match, smiles at her and says, "I'm afraid we weren't properly introduced. My name is Audrey. We've attached your arm for you but I'm afraid you need to do the rest of your limbs by yourself."

Miria cluthes her hand still in her own and gives it a firm shake as Audrey and the others steady her against a raised rock.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Audrey. My name is Miria."

A shiver of a whisper ripples through the gathered warriors as her name passes from lip to lip until the very back has heard it and let it roll off their tongue in a hushed embrace, the name of this warrior who tied them together with invisible thread and the point of her sword.

They are comrades made and forged in battle, carrying both cursed blood and human hearts. If there's one thing Miria has learned in all her years, it's that when it comes to warriors, always wager on the heart. It's the only part of their old selves the Organization cannot snuff out.

* * *

At first, Galatea only had a cursory recognition of Miria. When a warrior lives long enough in the Organization, she stops paying attention to the new generations. The chances of her seeing any of these new ones again were slim, especially for an Eye, who is respected but solitary. Real bonds are difficult to make when one's job is espionage.

While the men ranked each new warrior by skill and ability, Galatea ranked them by face. Miria had pulled an impressive third out of her entire generation, behind two warriors who neither had the skill nor potential to survive the first turning of the seasons.

She passed by Miria right before she was dispatched for her first awakened hunt and Miria's eagerness and her determination was strong enough to move Galatea. She could feel it almost like a physical brush across her skin, a radiation of solid warmth that made Galatea pull her head away from sheer surprise. Miria paused to look at her, alarmed but her face uncertain at what she had actually done to cause Galatea to pull away.

"I'm sorry, did I hit you?" she asked, tilting her head up to look at her with eyes brighter than any warrior had a right to have.

Galatea was never one to show her stumbles. She relaxed her hand, fingers curling with her palm facing up. To this day, she remembers herself thinking how strange it was for a new warrior to have such natural presence strong enough to influence even her own.

"It's quite all right," she had said, analyzing how Miria's aura lifted her own. It's a dangerous ability to have, the power to sway people's emotions like this, but Galatea couldn't find it short of fascinating. She smiled. "I can certainly forgive a fresh face like yours."

She is almost positive that had Hilda not called for Miria to hurry, she would have seen a ripple of red rush across her cheeks, however shyly. Sometimes, she feels denied the chance to see the phantom blush before losing her sight. What a sight that would be.

Right after Hilda's death, Galatea found her standing in the corridor of the headquarters, gazing out a window carved in the cliff face. The view it offered was of the red rocks blazing beneath the hot sun. Normally, she would have pressed on, but the change in Miria made her stop. The ambition was still there, the determination was sharpened, but the overwhelming love from before had been replaced with something coarse and bitter, and still, Galatea could feel the mood creeping its way into her as ever as infectious as before.

Galatea paused and cast a glance her away, saw her shoulders tremble. She stepped beside Miria and said, "You're shivering, seventeen."

Miria gazed forward into the bright sun and said, "I'm cold."

"Warriors don't feel the cold."

"It's not an ordinary cold."

Galatea remembers the way Miria looked at that moment of shivering cold, even now as she directs the children and the other sisters through the cathedral to a small room hidden behind the tabernacle. All of Rabona has fallen under attack by several packs of youma and awakened beings. After all the innocents squeeze through the small opening into the room beyond, Galatea moves to push the wooden planks over the small opening. Tabitha stands behind her watching the doorway for danger.

* * *

"We don't have a lot of time, Galatea," she shouts. "Five seconds before the first few youma get here. You've got to get that thing closed now."

Galatea smirks. "You've been spending too much time with Miria. You've got her dust all over you."

Galatea feels a hand on her arm as she moves the last plank in place and Sister Cecelia's taut spirit pricks her skin. She can feel the Sister's words tangle in her hair.

"You're going to fight in your condition?"

If only she could see the sister's expression right now. Is it one of concern? Are her eyebrows lifting and creasing her forehead. What color are her eyebrows? Her eyes? Her hair? Her skin? So many questions she'd never thought to ask when neither of them had thought Rabona could ever be under siege.

"I'm afraid it's quite literally in the blood," Galatea says, reaching to squeeze Cecilia's hand. "On top of that, I still need to earn your disdain. The children are in your care."

Cecilia's tight strings pull even tighter. Ah, Galatea thinks with a smile, there goes their one moment of fellowship, ruined by her deceitful tongue. She'd like to say that's in the blood too, just the other half of it.

"There's no time!" Tabitha says as she rushes into the room and pushes the last plank in place, sealing off the opening before Cecilia can say anything. Once again the back of the tabernacle is smooth and looks like a solid wall.

The hilt of a claymore is thrust in Galatea's hands and Tabitha pulls her toward the door. There isn't a need for the guide. Galatea can still map out her surroundings and feel the wretched yoki of the approaching youma, but it seems easier to follow Tabitha's lead than to waste time explaining things. Galatea hears a terrible scraping and then something moist.

It takes half a second for Galatea to realize that Tabitha scraped her forearm raw against the wall. She follows her up the stairs without a word before the Youma turn the corner to their corridor. The idea is simple, but brilliant. Youma can smell blood. These three bearing down on them will smell her blood and chase them, by passing the room where the tabernacle is completely.

The youma pound their way after them and the wood beneath Galatea's feet quakes with their ferocity. They are headed toward the roof, but there is nowhere else to go but over the edge and out into chaos engulfing the town.

"What's the plan, Tabitha?" Galatea asks her as they spin around the last corner to the open doorway, breaking out into the glare of the midday sun and across the cathedral roof. "Run?"

Tabitha grabs a fist full of fabric at Galatea's shoulder and pulls her over the edge.

"And jump."

They sail through the air, wind ripping at their clothes, until Tabitha buckles down for the landing, pulling Galatea down into a crouch with her. Their momentum causes them to roll the minute their feet touch solid roof, cradling the hilt of their swords to avoid the blade. Tabitha pulls her to her feet.

"You all right?" she asks her.

"For now," Galatea says, but then grips her sword. She can hear the pounding of feet on the next roof over closing in fast. "I can't speak much for the next minute."

"You'll be fine," Tabitha tells her.

"Don't you sound certain?"

"You won't die for the same reason I won't."

"And what's that?" She can feel Tabitha stiffen as the thundering feet are silenced when the youma take to the air. The two of them stand, claymores ready for the rain of youma about to come down on them.

"You want to see the Captain again."

Galatea can't contain the smirk she feels creeping across her face. She's beginning to like Tabitha quite a bit now.

"Clever girl," she says and they both bring their claymore up to draw first blood.

* * *

For reasons she does not know, Miria associates the cold with Galatea. Up in the north, while they seven of them spent those years training and Miria spent them planning this day, Galatea would somehow worm her into her mind. They were never full thoughts, but flitterring moments, snapshots of memories. It was after Hilda was dispatched that Galatea became more prominent in her life. It started with that day Miria was gazing out a window. It was summer and the east is a dry desert with the glare of the sun washing out the edges of the red rock with shimmers of gold, but for the life of her, Miria could not get warm. Even more peculiarly, she did not want to.

"You're shivering, seventeen."

"I'm cold."

"Warriors don't feel the cold," Galatea had told her after pausing on the spiral staircase they stood. She was merely passing by, she knew, on her way to some important meeting or debriefing. Miria didn't know the full business of an Eye.

What she said was true enough. Warriors were not susceptible to temperature. But Miria still felt it, that frigid scouring or her bones by its very marrow, frosting the tendons and then the muscles and diffusing through her body like a poison until it stopped her still right there in front of this window out of mere cruelty. Here, look. This is the sun blazing on heated rock while you freeze from the inside out.

She was bereft of words, so she said the only thing she could think to say. "It's no ordinary cold."

She had expected Galatea to say something inconsequential and then move on with her life, as any other warrior might have done. Perhaps she would make harsh judgments for that terrible tremble that passed through her shoulders against her will. What a horrible feeling this was, the cold.

"I suppose that makes sense. You're not an ordinary warrior," Galatea said behind her. "Don't ever let Rubin or the others see that about you and don't let them change it either, seventeen."

Then Galatea continued on her way, her boots light on the stone steps that carried her up and away. Finally, Miria's frost-bitten skeleton allowed the slightest manipulation and she looked over her shoulder after her, remembered the way the ends of her hair dared to defy gravitate with the help of a small breeze for the briefest of seconds before she disappeared around the spiral center column of the staircase.

That was not the moment Miria decided to take down the organization, but it was the moment she vowed to herself to not give them the chance to eliminate her before she could. She was a model warrior in action and deed and the worst of traitors in thought.

Miria felt the stinging wounds across her cheeks and dotting her forehead, but she ignored them as she attached her arm. Arms are more important than faces. As she sat on the cold ground against that cold rock, she saw red-hot rock and heard Galatea's voice, which she often heard when she needed to remind herself to push on.

_Don't let them see and don't let them change you. _

There is now an amendment to these words, slipped in just below the surface, more sentiment than word.

_And then come back here to me._

Continued…

**A/N**: First I had time and no computer. Now I have a computer and no time. Alas. Please ignore any notifications of replacement chapters in the near future. I plan on proofreading, copy-editing and possibly revising the previous chapters.

A million thanks of gratitude for anyone who took some time to leave a review or message me about this story in any way. It has been more encouraging than you will ever know.


	10. Comrades of a Different Kind

**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters, this world, or the property known as Claymore. I'm just having fun in someone else's sandbox.

**10. Comrades of a Different Kind**

Tabitha can feel her blade vibrate in her hands as the youma bone it meets shudders before shattering. She hears the youma laugh in response and grimaces. He immediately jumps away clutching with his arm trailing behind him in his wake. She was separated from Galatea in the fight, but she can feel her not too far away, vital signs still good. The children and the sisters they hid away earlier are still safe beneath her feet. Clarice and Miata's energy signals are steady holding off wave after wave at the east wall.

Tabitha understands that the city itself has already lost quite a few innocents, some good soldiers, and some sisters and brothers when the Cathedral was first attacked, but for the moment, everyone important to her in Rabona is okay.

She hears the flutter of cloth and feels Galatea's presence before she sees her land on the cathedral roof beside her. With the retreat of that last youma, they have a few precious seconds to survey the battle and form a plan.

Tabitha nods toward the east wall and says, "They seem to have marched from the east. The bulk of their forces are coming over that wall."

Galatea scrunches her nose at the rusty smell of blood that perfumes the city now and pushes damp hair from her neck where it clings.

"We have a powerful little girl and an unskilled warrior there, and two awakened coming from the west," she says and strikes her claymore vertical in the stone roof. "What would you have us do? Assist the east or defend the west?"

Tabitha can see the first awakened smash into the western wall before climbing up and over, a grotesque thing with gaping mouths across its torso. Roofing tiles on the first house scatter when it lands, and the part of the wall crumbles behind it, crashing into the dirt below. Two seconds, that's all she has, she knows. It's two seconds she doesn't need.

"Don't be cute. You damn well know what we're going to do," Tabitha says and takes off toward the west wall. Galatea is after her in a heartbeat.

"Have you always been this impulsive?" she hears just barely before the wind whips the words away. They slice their way through three youma who foolishly try to attack them in midair.

"Have you always waited for someone else to give commands?" Tabitha asks as they land on the last roof before the first awakened. The second has breached the wall, taking down half of the wall with it.

"Cheeky," Galatea says. "I've got the one of the left."

Tabitha grips the hilt of her blade and prepares to attack. They're both up and in the air in the same moment. Tabitha likes that jump before an attack, when your legs launch you into the air. Those few seconds it takes to cover the distance between you and your opponent, when your body commits whole-heartedly before you can think about it. It was Miria who taught her how to do that, how to commit, to put your heart into what you're doing. These precious nanoseconds before first contact on the battlefield is when Tabitha feels the bravest.

* * *

Tabitha had traveled north with two higher ranked warriors, number 17 Eliza, and number 27, Emelia. They were friendly enough, but were not chatty. All Tabitha had been told, at her mere 31, was they were needed in the north for a campaign shrouded in rumors.

"I'm plenty jealous," number 29, Finna, had told them back at the border of Toulouse. "I hear the Organization is keeping this mission confidential. Maybe only for trusted warriors."

"I wouldn't bet on it," number 25, Rivka of the Deceitful Blade, crossed her arms and leaned up against a large boulder that towered over the road they traveled. She pushed hair from her eyes and caught them in the corner of her eye. "Undine's up there. And so is Natalie and Keeny. The Organization doesn't trust them as far as they can throw them. You two've caused your fair share of drama, as well."

She nodded toward Emelia and Eliza, who exchanged glances. Only Eliza looked back at Tabitha. Tabitha didn't know either of them before being matched with them for the trek north, but by the way Rivka eyed them and the way Emelia and Eliza returned the harsh gaze, she didn't think anything else needed explaining.

"So what are you saying?" Emelia asked, "that they're punishing us for going missing for a few days?"

Finna's features softened. "You were almost labeled deserters, Emelia. And you still refuse to tell them what happened those days you were gone."

"Because nothing happened. We got off course, missed a few meet ups," Eliza said. "That's all."

"We came back," Emelia said with a stern look on her face. "That's all that matters."

Rivka snorted and looked away as if bored. She bent a knee and rest the heel of one foot against the boulder she'd claimed and let out a huff of air.

"Whatever," she said. "I don't care what you did. It's no concern of ours. You can die up there with the rest of the troublemakers for all I care. Come on, Finna."

She pushed herself off the rock and turned south, bending over to snatch the top of a blade of grass. Finna gave them one last regretful look before she caught up with Rivka. Tabitha can still remember the way the sunlight fell like patchwork on their silver uniform, blinding out to an almost white as they made their way down the shaded path and disappeared around the bend. Emelia's fist quivered and she shook off Eliza's attempts at comfort before looking over her shoulder.

"So what'd you do?" she asked. "Are you a lap dog or a trouble maker?"

Tabitha had hesitated, couldn't find her voice right then. What had she done, indeed. She hadn't tried hard, didn't really care to move up in the ranks. She completed every job she'd been given, but she usually did the bare minimum. She kept to herself, cautious of both warriors and the robed men of the Organization. Tabitha existed like a ghost, a mirage who was there when you needed her but faded off somewhere distant when you didn't. And she was fine with this. She came up with the closest thing she could thing to answer the question.

"Some villagers paid me for a job in two installments," she said. "I forgot to hand over the second installment immediately."

Eliza and Emelia glanced at each other and then grinned. Eliza said, "So, what? The Organization thought you were saving up for desertion? That's ridiculous."

Tabitha had shrugged. "That's probably how they took it. The truth is, I just didn't care enough to do it in a timely manner."

Emelia had laughed and clapped her hand across Tabitha's shoulder, pulling her along the path. "I can't see why apathy would be such a dangerous thing to them. Maybe they just need as many free hands. If that's the case, we better get up there quick."

They made it up in good time. Within the next day or two the temperature dropped and over night, they were in snow country with their hoods drawn low to keep the biting flakes from stinging their eyes. They were some of the first to arrive. The first time Tabitha saw Miria was inside the lobby of the first crude lodgings three warrior's had constructed on that frozen waste. Flora and Victoria had met them first and ushered them to this room where Miria sat with an unrolled piece of parchment and looked at them. The manner in which she spoke to them was direct and unapologizing, but calm and respectful.

"My name is Miria. I'm number six," she said, turning the parchment where they could see the list of names and ranks carefully inscribed in a neat column. "Please write your symbols next to your name."

* * *

Miria was everything Tabitha expected from a single-digit and had never gotten before. Flora was graceful but not tactical. Undine was abrasive and aggressive. They were accomplished warriors who could command small units on awakened hunts, but lacked the skill to organize a platoon on a battlefield. Miria, however, could. Miria was a leader.

Miria explained that they had at least a week of wait before everyone else was supposed to arrive in the north. In the mean time, they were to repair the buildings in this deserted village for shelter and weapon storage. Most of the warriors weren't pleased with the busy work and were very vocal about it. Tabitha found she didn't mind it. She liked to keep busy, to keep her hands and her mind occupied. She can focus her attention on a single task for an extended period of time until she perfects the skill. She learns quickly and likes to know all the components of a task and how they work together.

While she was working on fixing a lousy patch job on the armory roof, Tabitha caught sight of Miria making her rounds, watching the others work and listening to conversation with that analytical expression of hers.

She was figuring something out, Tabitha knew. Maybe figuring them out, all of them. From the corner of her eye, Miria noticed her, turned to toward her and said, "You're working roofs now? Weren't you on structural support earlier?"

"Just redoing this roof," Tabitha said. "Carla's not great with her hands and this roof will shed shingles in a month if nothing's done."

Miria nodded but her lips neither smiled nor frowned. Tabitha saw her scribble something on that same rolled piece of parchment. This was before Tabitha's fierce loyalty, before Miria became her captain, and so nothing stopped Tabitha from leaning over the edge of the roof peering over her shoulder to glance at the parchment.

"What kind of notes are you taking on all of us?" she asked.

"All kinds."

"Why?"

"That's how one comes up with good plans. Figuring out the strengths and weaknesses of your team and deciding where they plug in best."

Tabitha pulled herself back onto the roof and straightened, throwing her feet over the side.

"Where do I plug in?"

Miria tilted her head and glanced up at her, and her lips thinned into a small smile that softened the stern aura around her. Tabitha remembers almost being taken aback at this, at how different she looked.

"You're a jack-of-all-trades as long as you're passionate about what you're doing. You can plug in anywhere," Miria said, scribbling something quickly on the parchment. "But I gather your passion isn't for the Organization. I can see why they sent you here."

"What do you mean?" Tabitha had asked.

Tabitha remembers the way she tilted her head and looked up at her with that knowing look, like she could see passed everything else and to all the awful things she held inside her.

"You would be one formidable warrior if you put that passion into something the Organization didn't approve of," Miria said. Then the corners of her lips lifted and she smiled. "But that's what I like about you."

That was probably the first time Tabitha felt her heart flutter. It would not be the last time Miria caused her heart to hurt.

* * *

Caught in a dance of death, her claymore moving in its element, shining as it is revels in the moment it can be exactly what it was created to be, Tabitha's heart burns at the memory of Miria's blade coming down fast upon her. The anger inside her almost surprises her and she rips her blade through youma flesh as if she were knocking her captain's sword away, as if she were reliving that awful moment Miria disappeared without, making it right.

The worst part was after the fact, after Miria was long gone, and Tabitha was on the mend, the nerve endings reattaching, the muscles of her shoulder finding their other halves, Galatea had found her. Tabitha knew she had seen the damage Miria did to her. She not only nearly severed her arm, she stopped short, twisted her blade, and then pulled it up and out broadside facing the sky so it traumatized the flesh, tore it instead of sliced, making the regeneration take that much longer.

It was a dirty trick designed to stall her long enough for Miria to get reach the Organization and settle this matter on her own. By the time Tabitha reached her, it probably all be over.

Galatea had knelt beside Tabitha, once she was allowed, and examined the wound with her fingertips, trying to push bone fragments together to facilitate healing. She didn't say anything about the tears that had dried salty on Tabitha's cheeks.

"Miria is clumsy when it comes to others," Galatea had said, aiding in the stitching of severed muscle. "She is so very scared of losing those dear to her. Like you, for example. Like all of you."

Tabitha grit her teeth together but said nothing.

"She merely wants to keep you, Tabitha. If only just a little longer."

Tabitha's silence was a creature curling in on itself over and over, refusing to expose its treasured words, not to someone like Galatea, a person she does not trust. How do you know so much about her? She wants to say. How do you dare to put words to her actions like you know what's going on inside her head?

"Hold still," Galatea says. "Let me help you."

But then she saw it, in the way Galatea avoids looking at her when she says Miria's name, in the quiet way she tends to her shoulder in obligation, not from warrior to warrior, but from the most bitter of love.

She remembers this know as she dodges claws from below, pulling her claymore in an arc above her head. The sun glints off the metal and the thrash of red circles around her head as she brings the heavy blade down, crushing the offending youma hand. The heel of her boot cracks against his jaw, shattering teeth and sending saliva slinging in opposite directions. She is fueled by hatred.

She hates his glowing eyes and the obscenity that is his tongue, and she uses his face as a launching post to sail up into the air, avoiding the two monsters aiming to tackle her. She hates that they clamor after her like rats trapped in a corner at feeding time. She hates that this shoulder severed four hours ago is as good as new, that it was healed with Galatea's touch, that she even that sliver of soul radiating and followed it to its source to see a truth she did not want to see.

_You are important to the person I care about, Tabitha, and that makes you important to me. We are comrades in more ways than one._

Tabitha sails backward through the open space between youma bodies, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake as her claymore finds the flesh of beasts and severs it. But all she can think of is how Miria left them, both Galatea and herself, left the two of them whose love for her can no longer be contained.

* * *

It's not a surprise that her anger overflows when the others return in the aftermath, when Rabona is quiet once more, and the youma are gone. You took too long. You're too late. She's already gone. What took you? There's too much to say, too much to explain. I wouldn't have let her go by herself. I wouldn't have. She wants to say but doesn't because she doesn't have an answer for the inevitable question that follows. "Then why did you?"

They wouldn't understand, no matter what she'd say. It turns out we're more human than we think. Isn't that remarkable? That your brain can be brave but it matters little if your heart is a coward? Deneve is asking her questions.

"Where's Miria?"

"What happened?"

"Did Dietriche come?"

"What did Miria say?"

"We don't have time to sit here and talk," Tabitha said, frustrated that every moment they spent talking here, is another moment Miria could die. "We have to go now. I'll fill you in on the way there."

"We can't leave just yet. There are things that need to be taken care of here," Deneve said, casting her a cold shoulder. Deneve was like that. More aloof than Miria but not willing to share what she was thinking. "There are people who need help here."

"Let Galatea help them." Tabitha grabbed at a long weed and ripped it from its stalk, jamming her thumbnail into its leaf. She watched the juice bubbled onto her finger. "Right now, the captain is fighting every warrior the Organization has and then some and she needs our help. Is that not what comrades do?"

They're quiet at her demand and Tabitha finally understands that they've known all along and were too well-mannered to say.

She hates the way Deneve ignores her, glancing off in the direction that Helen disappeared, hates how calmly Cynthia and Yuma wait, in silence, like they don't comprehend the single word she'd just said. Do they not care? How could they not care? How can they just stand here like this is something that needs to be put to vote?

She scowls and flings the weed away. "Nevermind then. Do what you like. I'm going to save the captain. And to hell with all of you if you don't love her either after all this time."

She spins on her heel, rips those rotten tears from her eyes, and prepares to march off. _The captain taught me I was worth something. She taught me that all I had to do was put my passion into something and I have put that passion into her. I am gong to her._

She senses it before she knows its coming and reacts. The edge of her blade catches both of Deneve's, and while the force of the twins combined is discernable, Tabitha does not shudder beneath it. No, Deneve, no. She will not be stopped another time but a dirty shot to the shoulder. This time, she will not be stopped.

Continued…

**A/N:** Contrary to what you might think, I actually liked Tabitha a lot before beginning this story, but with this chapter, I may have come to love her.

Unending apologies, readers, for a number of things. First, the long wait. I had written most of this chapter back in January, decided it was too far out of scope of the original story concept, then removed it, then hated how dishonest the chapters after it felt after it was removed. I struggled to get the story's sincerity back. I cannot cut Tabitha out to get Miria back faster. Sorry. Meanwhile, you amazing readers have continued to check this story and have left me humbling feedback. I replaced this chapter and everything is now smooth sailing. Chapter 11 is finished. It will be posted when most of chapter 12 is almost complete. I'm aiming for no longer than 15 chapters.

**Next**:

"I see that you're still here as well."

"A promise _is_ a promise, Miria."


	11. Promise Keeper

**Disclaimer**: I borrowed a cup of Galatea and a cup of Miria from Norihiro Yagi. The ingredients don't belong to me, but the recipe is my own design.

**11. Promise Keeper  
**

There is a terrible gnawing of self-awareness that comes with the act of waiting. It's usually when one is waiting that one has the time to reflect and those awful should-haves and shouldn't-haves. This was why she is actually glad in a way when the holy city went under siege. It was a break from the terrible waiting.

How good it felt to feel her claymore sing as it sliced through youma flesh. The deafening silence that rang after the first initial violence when first blood is spilled was always a sickening moment of peace like an eerie calm in the midst of chaos. Galatea monitored her stress levels during the attack. Twice she'd slipped and let quickened her pace, until she felt her levels rising to dangerous levels, until it was no longer exhaustion but an adrenaline on the verge of joy. She had to shove the elation deep down in her soul, held between her lungs and her diaphragm where it swelled uncomfortably before diffusing into her blood stream.

Getting rusty there, are we? she thinks to herself. This is no time for anyone else to awaken. But that near joy, that punch of blood from her heart to her face, the adrenaline of battle and the rush of Miria's kiss… She would never have connected them before. It was a surge of emotion, a desperate need for more contact. More of this physical contact, whether it be through the vibration of her sword in her hands or the tender touch of Miria's lips on her own.

The battle had drawn on, from just after the first precious moments of dawn to the last minutes of day before twilight claimed the skies. The last awakened in the city walls was slain and the rest disbanded and took to the rolling hills, disappearing into the coming night.

* * *

She bore witness to the explosion of emotion from Tabitha and Deneve. Of course, what timing ghosts always had. How angry Tabitha was and how easy it was to tell who she was really angry with, but did not want to admit. To be left behind and asked to swallow that crush of pride willingly. Horrible thing to ask of someone. Galatea can feel it. They're all angry, Tabitha and Deneve the most. An angry verging on betrayed. How dare their captain abandon them in at a time she needs them the most.

The argument does not last long. They take off almost instantly, headed toward the east, to Miria.

It's not that Galatea wants to follow. Unlike the seven, she is quite used to being left, but she is also accustomed to leaving as she pleases. Waiting is not a skill she has perfected. The very act of it is unlike her. What would they think, she wonders, the warriors of her generation, who knew her as aloof and uncaring, what would they think if they saw her now, in this nun's robe with this scarred face, counting down the days until a junior warrior returned, touched her face, and let her kiss her?

How far you've fallen Galatea, she thinks.

* * *

Galatea finds her way to the cathedral and slips through the cracked door and beneath the fallen beam that obstruct it on the other side. The cathedral is mostly untouched though she is able to detect the shapes of fallen chairs and smashed artifacts that line the walls. She makes her way to the back where the tabernacle rests, covering the hiding spot. When she opens the door, the tabernacle comes free and crashes against the floor by her feet. On the other side of the wall there's an audible gasp that is quickly muffled.

Exhausted, she lifts a hand to knock but rests against the fake back wall instead.

"It's me, Sister," she says, weary and worn from wreckage and worry. "It's safe now. You're safe. Though I can't speak much for the tabernacle."

There was a sharp scraping as the fake door gives way and Galatea feels Sister Cecilia's sharp plucking presence before she feels the hand on her shoulder and then a few little hands grabbing at her robes.

"Sister, you're bleeding."

"Sister, you're hurt."

"Sister, why'd you leave us?"

Some of the children are already crying but at the sight of Galatea, several of them began to wail, unable to contain them any longer. Cecilia and Camille shush them tenderly.

Galatea laughs.

"What an ordeal to go through so bravely and quietly," she said, "and the minute its over, you must let the whole world know your fear?"

This only made them sob even louder and Cecilia, ever her opposite, gently cooed at them and said to her, "They're only concerned. It is upsetting to see you in such a way."

Immediately, Galatea wonders what she looks like. Ragged? Torn? The blood isn't even hers – mostly. Whatever wounds she had healed long before she set foot in this room, in the cathedral even. What about her hair? She reaches up to feel the strands and finds them all in tact, matted and a bit frayed perhaps, but the same length and feel as before.

"My apologies, Sister," she says, resting against the smooth door frame. "I'm fine. I am… unused to having others worry about me. Come on then. Let's get you out of this little hole."

She extends a hand out into the open air and felt Cecelia's hand slip inside her own. There was no jump inside her, nothing at all like what she felt when Miria brushed her hand with hers. Galatea pulls Cecelia through the door who then frees her hand from her grip and clears her throat. There's the sound of a palm stern against fabric. Cecilia is straightening her robe. Then the concern drains from her voice and her presence tightens once more, back to that taut string Galatea is so familiar with.

"Come along now, children," she says, the authority returning to her voice, "single file please. Your parents must be worried sick about the lot of you."

Galatea stays until the patter of little feet on the dusty wood floor shuffle past her and then disappear down the hallway. Camille pats her shoulder, thanks her, and then scurries after them.

Then she calls out, "I suppose you'll want to keep this out of the classroom then, Sister Cecilia?"

Cecilia does not even turn her head to look at her. She lifts a dismissive hand and says loudly, so her voice can carry behind her in the empty corridor, "Only the guts and glory parts."

"All that's left is the ugly then."

Galatea just barely hears her response it before the train of children and chaperones disappear around the corner.

"_Pricesely_."

* * *

It has been a day and a half since the others have left.

Clarice and Miata have busied themselves with helping the soldiers and all the able-bodied men rebuild Rabona's wall while the others have gone off after Miria. Every morning before dawn, Clarice has them both dressed and out there. She knows little about construction but finds more purpose in holding up a support beam while the men hammer nails to secure it than Galatea can understand. They use stones from the old wall and jigsaw them together with mortar.

Clarice catches sight of her standing to the side. Galatea can tell because of the way she pauses and the air around her turns in a curious manner. She feels her approach but doesn't bother to move. Let the girl come. What could she say that could affect the situation?

"You're not going to go?" Clarice asks her, coming to stand beside her. "With the others I mean."

"It's not my place." Galatea shakes her head and the corner of her lip lifts.

She turns on her heel and takes a step, but stops when she hears Clarice clear her throat, when she hears the words, curious but demanding, float on the breeze between them.

"Why do you say that? That it's not your place? What do you mean by that?"

Galatea pauses. "It means just what it says. It's not a trick of words, Clarice."

"It sounds like you don't think you deserve to go, or that you don't have the right to, but that's ridiculous." Clarice's steps sound like paper scraping against sand coupled with a dull thud as the heels of her feet fall heavy on the ground. "You know I've heard lots of things about you, awful things. Things like how you liked to stare in the mirror too much and you would sever any arm that did harm to your face. That you knew too much, that you could take down the Organization with what you knew, that you had to be stopped, that you were as capable and as worthy as any warrior ever."

"You believed all of that?" Galatea asks, amused. She turns her ear to the source of the voice, to better hear her.

"Of course, I did, " Clarice says. "Why else would they dispatch Miata to discard of you? I came here expecting a monster."

"And what did you find?"

"I found you,_ this_, this church and these sisters, those children you look after. What happened to you, Galatea? What makes you think that you can't stand beside them now and fight with them?" Clarice sighs and the fabric of her clothes rustle as she shifts her weight. "I'm just curious."

The smile on Galatea's face has long since faded. Is that what she thinks of her? This shallow interpretation? How silly, this child is. Her eyebrow furrows and her lip twitches at the offense she feels.

"I have never once felt that I was inferior to any warrior, Clarice," she says. "Understand that at least."

"Then, why-?"

"Miria and the others are on one path which they are pursuing right now with the understanding that it may not be a long path. It's not my place to be on their path because I have my own right here in Rabona."

Galatea can feel a frustration rising in Clarice at this answer. It's not at all satisfactory for her and she lets out a huff of air.

"But what if she doesn't come back?"

There is a pinch of something bitter and uncomfortable in Galatea's chest at these words. That's not something she has allowed herself to think about seriously. She had been so focused on how humorous it was that she, former number three God Eye Galatea, was waiting patiently, that she hadn't stopped to think that waiting might be in vain. When she did not respond immediately, Clarice continued.

"Will you still not go to her?"

Galatea doesn't like the directness of this question, nor that it comes from Clarice, who is not yet warrior enough to know when to let such questions go. She reaches up scratches a soft itch on her cheek and then takes a mental note to clip her fingernails.

Then she says, "Show me her head, Clarice, and I will go to bury her."

It's an answer that Clarice doesn't expect and doesn't know how to respond to. They both consider it lucky when the soldiers call Clarice back to help hold up the wooden support once more. She makes a soft click of her tongue in thought before she takes a step back, and then spins on her heels and jogs back, leaving Galatea to that awful pinch inside her chest.

* * *

Galatea is working in the common room lit and warmed by the fire. In her hands is her woven rope, intended for the Burning. They aren't sure if the festival will still happen, but with nothing else to occupy her hands and her mind, Galatea mindless weaves. Clarice and Cecilia are off, attempting to motivate Miata how to bathe herself. The girl-child already knows how to do many things, they've discovered. It's in keeping her interested in doing those things herself that continues to be the trouble.

There is presence in the door, a familiar one of steady rain, more focused than she'd ever felt before. She bows her head and the weight of her hair spills forward. She hopes it hides the way her lips quiver and curve.

She says, "You sure took your time."

Miria is standing in the doorway and when she moves, Galatea can hear that old familiar swish of skirt of their silver uniform. The image of Miria in it is burned in Galatea's heart. She does not need her eyes to know how Miria looks, walking into the room with her claymore strapped to her back.

"I'm here now."

Galatea stifles a cruel snicker. Of all the things they could have said, what a disappointing first interaction between them. She picks up her rope, tucks a strand beneath the loop of another, and pulls it through.

"I see."

There is a new weight to Miria's rain, a heavy, melancholic drumming that darkens the entire room. Something has happened to her these three days she's been away. If this had been a week ago, Galatea would ask her blatantly, but now she finds the question catching stubbornly at the back of her throat, where language is translated into words, but the words are failing.

"I see that you're still here as well, Galatea."

"A promise is a promise."

Galatea sets the rope down and stands from the chair, the crackling of the fire soft and warm in her ear. She cannot stand it, this trivial exchange. She rounds the chair and comes to the table where Miria stands. Her fingers reach across the empty space, aiming for her voice like silk against her skin, her slightly chapped lips that need mending. What does she plan to do? She doesn't know. The point was just to touch, to feel, to find out what Miria looks like in a moment such as this. Miria takes her reaching hand and, surprisingly, places it to her cheek, then lets her ask all her questions through tactile touch.

Her fingers feel the lightly raised skin of the fresh scar, a jagged X that reaches across her face, down both cheeks. What happened to you? Who gave you this wound and how much had it hurt?

Instead, she indicates her own eyes with her free hand and says, "We match now."

Miria takes hold of her hand and gently lifts it from her face, holding it in her own for just a moment before finally letting go.

"I'm surprised you're not disappointed," she says.

"Should I be?"

"At the loss of my 'pretty' face," Miria clarifies. "I was sure that's what you would have said of the scars."

"I don't mind the scars."

"Good. I don't mind the loss. "

Galatea smiles at the memory of the sound of water rippling with motion, of the crisp woods around. This moment they stand in now is an echo through time, an arrow shot that first night she perched on a boulder and asked if she was still angry with her.

She chuckles and says, "Because you thought of my reactions, does this mean you worried it might chase me away?"

The silence is taut but tilted, a tight-lipped refusal to confirm anything. Is there a rush of blood to her cheeks? Galatea wonders. Is there a rash of red across the bridge of her nose? Then she feels Miria's forehead rest against her own, warm and smooth.

"Shush," Miria tells her. "There are moments to talk and there are moments to just breathe."

It is a touch that simultaneously comforts and destroys. She cannot remember a version of herself who has not felt this presence. She stands here now, Galatea reborn, one of seven who have seen the great Miria yield.

Finally, a breaking of breath and Miria pulls away.

She steps aside with a dismissive exhale. Galatea knows what that means. _Not now. Not here_. Her voice clears. Of course. Miria, the proper, Miria, the untouchable, slipping through her fingers once more. And the moment splinters before snuffing itself out.

"Do you have a moment right now?" she asks.

It is not merely a question. It is almost a command. I have something to tell you, it says, and only you. Galatea nods again and steps away, to let the air circulate between them. Any time, she thinks. Say it just like that, nonchalant just like that. I always have a moment for you. How silly to ask. Say it.

"Of course," she says and brushes passed for the door. "Although, I'm not sure how we can ever top the last few moments we've shared."

That will suffice, she thinks as they step over the threshold into the corridor.

They snake their way through the familiar stone hallway in silence. They can hear the muffled voices of other people walking the winding hallways. Beside her, Miria is strung tight with a whirlwind of thoughts she must find it difficult to untangle. They're nearing her quarters, her same small little room where she had first taken Miria to speak where ears could not listen. Galatea opens the door and lets her walk through first.

"Something's bothering you," she says as she gently pulls the door closed behind her. "What happened over there?"

Upon the soft click, stern Miria says, "What do you know of the asarakam?"

Galatea shrugs."Nothing useful. Rumors, really. Myths. And only that they were important to the Organization."

"They are dragons, the asarakam, from the land beyond," Miria says and her voice carries a distant quality, one that hints of the things she's seen and thought in their time apart. "Descendants, really, who've lost the form over the years – until they awaken."

Galatea pauses at the door, unsure what to make of this, so she says nothing. The tight well inside Miria's chest is expanding and releasing and she can feel how much Miria needs this, the expelling of her prison of thoughts into the open to find someone, anyone to share in the small, intimate space. She quietly pulls the chair from her desk, the wood scraping softly against stone, and then takes a seat.

"They are beautiful," Miria says. "When they awaken, they resemble their ancient selves, feared and awed on the battlefield. Once-Dragons and then dragons once again."

"So they become what they once were," Galatea says. She had known of the land outside and of the war, of the specimens Rimuto experiments upon. She leans back against the chair as Miria takes a step toward the only other place to sit, the bed. The distance, for Galatea, is agreeable.

"And we're descendant from them," Miria tells her, "but when we awaken, we don't become anything like them. Rimuto took away our grace. And you knew that, didn't you?"

Galatea is shaking her head. "Not to the extent you're thinking. I knew we were imitations, but never of what or how we measured on the scale of success."

There's a heavy thud as Miria unstraps the blade on her back and lets it fall heavy against the wall beside the cross. She can read a frustration in everything she does, in the way she steps to the bed to sit, but then changes her mind, and spins on her heel toward her. There's something gnawing at the back of her mind that she hasn't yet said.

"What are you thinking, Miria?" Galatea asks. "Shall I guess? Shall I peek and find out?"

She is finding it easier and easier to slip back into her old self, when she could be in the same room with Miria without her heart thumping inside its bone cage and it makes her feel more at ease, more in control.

Miria lets her hand come down on the headboard of the bed and Galatea can hear a finger tap a single time against the dense wood.

"I am thinking about your experiment," Miria says. "I'm thinking we should do it."

Continued…

**A/N:** Wait, just…. Wait. Miria will explain.

Also, have I announced this is now an AU? No? Okay, it is now, because I'd love to end it, but the events in the manga (as of 138 anyway) aren't going to be slowing down any time soon. So, if it feels a little rushed and cannot nicely fit inside the manga anymore (not that it could before)... sorry?


	12. The Cruelty of Truth

**Disclaimer: **Let's just agree that I'm only borrowing these characters and this world and bastardizing them for no profit whatsoever.

**12. The Cruelty of Truth**

The moment catches inside Galatea's chest and holds her stationary in that seat while the air ceases to move from her lungs. She can feel that Miria is too preoccupied to see how the capillaries beneath the skin of her cheeks burst and spread a rash of warmth across the bridge of her nose.

She only manages a slight cock of her head and says, "What, may I ask, has changed the mind of my former six so easily? The asarakam?"

Miria is oblivious to the surprise she's caused. She crosses the room before leaning against the edge of the desk beside Galatea. Perhaps she crosses her arms as she ponders her next words. Or sets her palms against the weathered rim of the wood and raises her shoulders in weariness.

"All this time," Miria says and her voice is low and even, "we've been afraid of the moment we lost control, of what we become after we lose that last human shred, because it was shameful what lay beyond. It was _inferior_. I want to know why the abyssal ones can maintain full sentience while others become shadows of their former selves. I want to know what determines the difference."

"No matter if it's a terrible difference?"

"Especially if it's terrible."

"What are you going to do if you don't like what you find?"

"It's not important if I like it or not. What's important is if we can control it, the awakening, through synchronized youki, or strong human attachments," Miria says. She is quiet for a moment, considering before she draws in a heavy breath. Her next words come out cautious, a tentative taste of how they feel on her tongue before committing to the way they sound. "But what if it's not a matter of control, Galatea? What if it's a matter of acceptance? That it's not losing humanity, it's transcending it?"

"That's a dangerous line of thinking," Galatea tells her, but stops when she feels a shift in Miria's presence, a subtle shift in mood, and she knows that Miria has turned to look at her.

The air between them becomes dense and writhing. All it needs is the electricity from Miria's pointed words to spark it to life.

"And who decided that it was dangerous? That warrior's only had two choices: human or monster? Who told us that life was not life if we no longer carried our human hearts?"

"You're risking a lot on this notion that there is a difference at all, especially here, now, with all these warriors waiting outside these doors."

"So you'll have help slaying the monster."

Galatea is wary of the way Miria breathes, the inhale of oxygen into her lungs, absorbed into the blood stream through engorged capillaries, then carried to her extremities. She flicks a few strands of hair from her face and bows her head, smiling, but says nothing.

"What if I'm uncomfortable putting you in that situation?"

Miria leans in, like it's a secret the rest of the world is not prepared to hear, and says, "That never bothered you before."

"That was before."

Now she feels the creak of the wood as Miria lifts her palms from the edge and rattles the desk on its uneven legs. There are certain things that can only be communicated through touch and Galatea feels it now in the way the knuckles scrape gently across her cheek, before the fingers extend and the palm, warm and dry, comes to rest against her face. There, in the way her face turns toward Miria's hand, is everything Galatea thinks but has never said, one small, impulsive act of shameless desire.

What is there to say now but the truth? When is it ever appropriate to say it? The appropriateness matters very little in this moment when Miria closes the distance between them.

"I have to know, Galatea," she says as if it is a secret of which the world is not yet ready. "I have to know one way or another."

It is a greedy kiss, one of the wrong kind of curiosity, one done for the sake of science. Though, once upon a time, Galatea may have thrilled in it out of her own morbid interests, now she finds it both disarming and deflating. Miria draws the breath from her lungs and claims it, leaving Galatea winded and empty.

It takes all her effort to push her away. Two weeks ago and she would have taken this as far as they needed to find the answers they both seek, but much has changed since then. She hadn't quite known how love factored into the equation until now.

She is shaking her head, turning her face away.

"No," she says. "No. You do this, Miria, and I'm doomed."

She half expected anger. How frustrating for them to always be on opposite sides of every coin. When one comes around, the other shies away? Ridiculous. Miria is tenderly quiet. She pulls back respectfully and then leans against the desk beside her.

"Doomed to what?"

Galatea feels ashamed that while her own youki has fluctuated dramatically over the course of their conversation, Miria's has remained a steady calm, rhythmic even, a constant pulsing hum as if nothing has surprised or elated her this entire time.

"To you."

"In what way?"

Galatea burns at the scorching of truth on her tongue and the cruelty that comes with naivete.

"Don't be cruel. Tabitha is not the only one in love here."

There is a slow murder of minutes as she awaits a response, any response, anything but this staunched silence. Miria chuckles beneath her breath – _chuckles_—then mutters, nearly to herself. The disappointment she can hear in her voice almost shattering. Since when had that ever mattered to her?

"You can't say it, can you?" She gives a laugh, callous and cold on her tongue, "I know, Galatea. Of course, I know. For all that you see, and all the wisdom it gives you, there are still things that even you are blinded to."

Galatea's heartbeat roars behind her ears and her skin prickles. What does that mean even? Who is the one being cryptic now?

She can feel it like a gravitational pull, Miria's youki reaching out toward them in rays of warmth and pulling at her own. Much like that first time she brushed by her all those years ago, when her enthusiasm that had influenced her own, Galatea cannot help but feel, in this moment, Miria's infectious spirit persuading her own. So that's how she does it, she thinks. That's how Phantom Miria can so easily make an army fall to their knees before her from the sweet seduction of the soul. It's a kind of manipulation but not of the sort that Galatea does. Galatea convinces a body to do something it doesn't necessarily want to do. Miria convinces a heart to want to.

And at this realization, just like that, Galatea, the prized eye of the Organization, surrenders.

She stands from the chair, takes Miria's face in her hand and kisses her, a hand swooping to the small of her back. Who was she to refuse a request from the Phantom? This will hurt a lot in time, but that time is not now. Miria braces herself against the desk and Galatea can feel her youki drawing her in. This is the thing about falling. Once you realize it's happening, there's nowhere else to go but down.

* * *

They all felt it, even Clarice, who pauses even as Miata, beside her, cautiously considers the new arrivals. The one with the close-cropped hair, Deneve, she said her name was, is rigid and closed off and stares and considers Miata almost as closely as Miata considers her. The girl's lip almost curls as if she had pointed canines in her mouth to bear.

The others don't take much notice to the quick moment that passes between Deneve and Miata. Helen is informing them of what happened in the east, of Hysteria, Cassandra, and Roxanne. They are not names Clarice is too familiar with, but she has heard them once or twice, perhaps in the boring lectures of high ranks who felt it only proper that legends should live on in the younger generations.

They were in the midst of describing what they could piece together before they arrived, of Miria on the boulder above all of them, holding Rimuto's head aloft, the only one of them to take a human life. Clarice notices the sharp way Tabitha's gaze shift toward the cathedral's dormitories. At nearly the same time, the other one gifted with youki, Cynthia, glanced toward the building in the distance and then to Tabitha, but quickly looked away before Tabitha could see her.

It is a sharp rise in youki, a painful prick so sudden and dense that it was difficult to ignore. Tabitha is the first to take off with the others trailing at her heels.

* * *

It is embarrassingly awkward at first when logic struggles to relinquish control. Galatea has never actually seen the act despite having felt the powerful energies it unleashes in others. For a moment, she is not sure what to do and feels foolish at this hole in her web of knowledge. Then, somewhere between the lulls in Miria's youki and the feeling on her fingers trailing down the length of her arms, it ceases to matter.

The only thing that matters is the way she can feel their youkis intertwining at the same time their fingers lace together. There is a building, a yearning, and the body knows what the mind does not. _Here, right here._ When Galatea's hand ventures there, Miria's youki will fluctuate. That small ripple in the otherwise stoic commander is almost intoxicating, but the curiosity is almost sweeping. Just that little touch affected her so? Was that even possible for one such as Miria?

She had all intentions to monitor Miria's vitals to encase her inside a velvety cocoon of her own will, ready to pull her back if her vitals rose too high.

Her kisses trail along Miria's neck, and she leans forward, forcing her to perch on the edge of the desk. Galatea finds herself in the space between her knees, fingerings running along the length of her firm thighs to rest on each kneecap. It's nothing but exhilarating when she feels Mirira's hands snake around her waist and pull her closer. Galatea's hand is adventurous. There is a spot that grows warm and tight, she knows, where the blood floods to and the youki condenses inside, where everything circulates around. She looks for the spot, finds it, presses into it, and is not prepared for the way Miria nearly gasps and then hunches over, until her face is buried in Galatea's shoulder, or the way her youki spiked to outrageous levels before she pulls her hand away.

"Are you okay?" she asks, concerned at the heavy breathes Miria heaves into her shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. No, of course not." A mere shake of the head. She straightens up, and takes in a deep breathe. "Just…"

It's strange to see Miria bereft of words like this. She is never without the right thing to say, never grasping at language like she does now.

Miria closes her eyes and regains herself. Then she says, "Just… softer. For now."

There's an annoying nagging at the back of her mind where her last remnants of logic hides, trying to alert her to something, something coming. She pushes the thought away before her mind can articulate them into words, before she's fully conscious of the pounding feet in the hallway. She is still considering the dampness on her fingers.

Her door to the left bursts open with a loud jolt and then an obnoxious thud as it smashes against the stone wall and both her's and Miria's heads snap toward it and the sudden gust of wind that rattles the papers wrinkled beneath Miria on the desk. In an instant, seven warriors are inside her room, all shouting variations of the same thing.

"Captain, are you hurt?!"

"Where is she? Where's Miria?"

"She'd better not be dying, I swear-."

Galatea can only imagine how this must look to them and it mustn't be good as a silence rips aggressively through the room. With their youki still intertwined, Galatea can swear she feels the rush of warmth across Miria's face. She steps away to let Miria ease herself to the ground.

"Has something happened?" Miria asks in a voice so calm it rattles the silence in the room.

Helen's awkward laughter rings in Galatea's ears and then sound of fabric and the release of tightened youki as the group lets down their guard, everyone except Tabitha.

"Something? Oh, No! No problems… out there," Helen says with an exaggerated voice. "What about-, what about in here? No awakened beings…. Right?"

"Not yet, anyway," Galatea says and folds her arms across her chest before turning a shoulder to them. She can feel the look Miria gives her almost like a pinch of ice and she smirks and says nothing more.

"All right, the lot of you," Deneve finally says and her energy becomes firm and expansive, as if herding the others back to the door. "Let's go. Nothing to see here. Come on. The reunion will have to wait."

There is the sound of feet shuffling across the stone flooring and soft murmurs whispered beneath suspended breath.

"Did you see that coming? I sure as hell didn't. I mean, who would have?"

"Shut up, Helen."

"Don't even try to pretend like you did, Deneve."

There's only one left standing in the doorway, Tabitha's fearful youki, powerful but contained. She says nothing but Galatea knows she and Miria are having a conversation without words, one made through gazes of solemnity in the gravest of moments. What would they say if she weren't here, Galatea wonders. What would they do? Does the light in the corridor cast Tabitha's shadow on the floor, long and looming, an enveloping presence in the small rom? Does it shroud her face? Can Miria see her silver eyes despite the shadow?

Before turning the corner, Deneve pauses. Galatea can hear her hand come to rest on the doorknob.

"Tabitha," she starts, but Miria speaks instead.

There are no excuses on her tongue, no explanations, no attempts to smooth the situation or make it appear better than it is. Honesty and leadership is not for the kind-hearted.

"No matter what happens," Miria says, "no matter what you feel happening, Tabitha, don't come. Not until we are both beyond rescue and gone."

She is moving across the room to the wall where she slung her claymore. Galatea can hear the tiny clasp on her hilt unhinge, can hear the distinct sound of the black card as Miria releases it from the handle and closes the spot once more. Then her footsteps cross the room once more. Tabitha's youki is quivering, unraveling.

"No," she says. "Don't, Captain."

_Don't ask me to do that._

But it's too late. Galatea knows the card is already in her hands, knows that her fingers are trembling holding on it.

"I want it to be you," Miria tells her, "who takes the last strike. You promise me that."

"Miria," Deneve starts but Miria shushes her someone, perhaps by a lifting of her hand, or a quick shake of her head.

"And if nothing happens?" Tabitha asks, her voice betraying her and shaking with uncertainty.

"Then return this card and we will talk." There's a small silence. Tabitha's youki peaks briefly and Galatea knows that Miria has kissed her. Where? On the forehead? On the cheek? On the lips? "Deneve, please see her out and relay this to the others."

It's hard to decipher how Deneve feels from her voice, an aloof monosyllabic way of speaking most of the time, but her disapproval is palpable.

"Sure. Fine."

With the speed with which both she and Tabitha are gone, Galatea can only guess that she had whisked her junior away. When the door clicks shut, the room, once so private and intimate five minutes ago, suddenly feels so empty and expansive. Galatea swallows dry air and she can still smell Miria on her fingers.

"What exactly do you think is going to happen tonight, Miria?" she asks. "You give her your black card like you think this is your last night. You don't think I'll be able to pull you back or take care of you if I can't?"

She can feel Miria turn to face her, can feel her close the distance between them. Her hand comes light to Galatea's cheek and her breath is warm on her nose.

"I didn't give her my black card," she says. "I gave her yours."

Galatea is motionless at the words, caught between an age-old lie and the awful truth she can never get herself to say.

"You lied about your card being blank," Miria says. Her other hand has joined its partner and she holds Galatea's face still.

"I always lie."

"How long have I been on your card?"

"Since Hilda passed." She pulls her face from the warm hands. "Why do you think I'm the one in danger tonight? That I'll need a warrior on hand with her blade?"

There is a taste of distrust creeping up the back of her throat. Galatea is almost insulted at the insinuation of it, annoyed that Miria would include a third party in this, and, perhaps, worst of all, that the third party was Tabitha. It's a silly annoyance, she knows, something that wouldn't normally bother her. She turns from her but finds nothing but walls and closed doors and nowhere to go to gain distance.

"I'm not sure how either of us will manage tonight," she hears behind her. "What do you mean, since Hilda?"

"You think we'll both awaken and that'll be that?"

At first Miria is annoyed, she can tell by the way she starts to say something but then bites down hard on the words and swallows them. After a moment, her hand is on her shoulder, a soft touch, assertive but understanding. It slides down her arm to her wrist, then takes hold her hand and turns Galatea around.

"Be honest, Galatea. You didn't expect our youki to intertwine like that anymore than I did," Miria says. "You can't pull me back if you lose yourself too."

"And knowing that, you still want to do this? Your curiosity is worth all of that?"

"If we go, we go together."

Galatea lets out a bitter chuckle. How do people like Miria even come to exist? Shouldn't nature's impartial way have bred the romanticism out of people by now? Survival of the fittest, they say. The selfless end up youma feed. Everyone will abandon you if it means they will survive. Galatea learned that a long time ago, before the Organization, before this life. Suddenly, she can't stand to be so close to Miria. She lets her knees buckle and falls away from her grasp, coming down hard on the straw mattress.

"You are the worst sort of cruelty when you're being kind," she says, drawing in a breath at the turn the night has taken and crossing one leg over the other.

Miria sinks to the bed beside her, the mattress rocking with her weight, and she says, "Why did you lie about your card?"

"Don't misunderstand." Galatea draws comfort in these tried and true words, words that have never failed her. "I barely knew you then. I just wanted to slip away unnoticed and I thought you would be someone who came in, finished the job, and didn't ask questions."

"It's too late for that. I've noticed you already."

If she could stills see, Galatea would have lifted her elbow to spy her from its shadow. She might have given a smile, said something disarming to gain back her control. Instead, she has to let out her bitter laugh once more.

"And you say I'm the flirt."

Miria releases her youki once more, reaching it out like fingers across the bedspread to tease at Galatea's skin. Goosebumps rise along her arms wherever it touches, a tantalizing taunt that tickles along her vertebrae now. Finish what you start, Godeye. Or shut it down now.

"We have one night, Galatea."

She isn't sure why the thought never articulated in her brain before. One night. Of course, there was only one night. Once this business with the Organization was finished, of course, they would leave, off on their next adventure, perhaps snag a sea-worthy vessel and find the main land, find the asarakam, if there are any left, find the war, find the source to all the trouble here on this island. Miria without a mission is no Miria at all.

"For god's sake." She bolts upright now, taking Miria by the arm and pushing her down hard against the bed. Fine. One night. If that is all there will be, then so be it.

* * *

She takes her time to finding Miria's spirit thread. It is too alluring to follows the waves of youki, the invisible curls it took as if it were made of a pliable substance, a solidity she can mold with her fingers that trailed along curved hips and toned thighs. There is a terrifying control she feels over Miria's vitals. She can kiss along her clavicle and Miria's breath will catch, lifting her chin and exposing her neck almost by instinct.

Miria can find that spot of warmth with her knee and press into it and Galatea will bow her head, her spatial awareness shrinking, zeroing in on that painful yearning. Miria could kill her right now. Or she could kill her. What horrible demanding of trust this required. And still her youki levels are rising, both of theirs, at staggering rates. Galatea grips Miria's knee and coaxes it away. She deflects her hands and pulls her closer, as close as possible. What a feeling, the craving for skin, to touch more, to feel more, to be together more. When Miria's body shudders and her youki is at the precipice of awakening, when her head falls backward, and her face contorts, Galatea wraps her own youki around them at the same time she wrapped her arms, containing an almost fully awakened Miria within the confines of her soul.

That's when she feels the sorrow.

It comes in waves, pulsations of sadness that rip through Galatea, and attempt to obliterate the hold of her arms and the swaddling of her youki. It made her hold tighter, closing her eyes, as Miria pushes against her, language lost on her transformed tongue.

"Shh," Galatea says, her voice so tender and soft "Sh. I've got you, I've got you."

She finds the spirit thread again, battered and worn, and she soothes it, pushes the wrinkles out until it is flawless once more, until Miria's body stops jerking and her violent youki quiets to a whisper.

And Miria weeps, quietly, in her arms. She covers her face and cries at where she had been just now, what she had discovered at that terrifying place - or didn't.

"There is no grace," she starts. "Galatea, what if there is no grace? I was too afraid to go any further to find out."

Galatea strokes her hair, can't find the energy to resist the urge to kiss the top of her head. She shushes her softly once more.

"But there was, Miria, there was," she says. "You were the most magnificent being I had ever seen."

Continued...

**A/N**: chapter 12, the chapter that never ends and was rewritten seven times. Each time, I had to set it aside for a day or two to see it with fresh eyes. I am so sorry.

So manga chapter 140. Synchronized awakening. What, what? Yagi, are you in my head or am I in yours? I so wish I had read the scene with Galatea and Dietrich before writing the last chapter. How much fun would that have been to work with?


End file.
